


A Failure of Diplomacy

by Land-of-Ink-and-Parchment (InkwellHero)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gore, M/M, Sexual Content, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 110,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkwellHero/pseuds/Land-of-Ink-and-Parchment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As another sweep passes and the Alternian Civil War continues, sixteen young trolls waver on the cusp of adolescence and adulthood and realize that they have much bigger roles to play than they ever imagined.</p><p>Featuring ancestors, beta kids who are inexplicably trolls, and more death than should be allowed in a fanfic.</p><p>(Unannounced hiatus: over. Welcome home.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions, Part the First

**Your name is KARKAT VANTAS.**   


**You are currently NINE AND A HALF SWEEPS OLD, which is about NINETEEN EARTH YEARS, not that you know what Earth is, and it is your WRIGGLING DAY. It just so happens that you don't give a shit about this fact, but you don't want to get into that. You are a MUTANT, and would be dead by now if not for the ALTERNIAN CIVIL WAR. You would have been killed by IMPERIAL DRONES sweeps ago if the LOWBLOODS had not declared war on the HIGHBLOODS. But since this is a thing that happened, you are an UNOFFICIAL THRESHECUTIONER and happen to serve in the LOWBLOOD ARMY.**   


**What will you do?**

You never expected life to be a cakewalk upon joining the revolution, and you knew it would only get harder when the war began. But this is ridiculous.

At the moment you are stuffed so far into a crevice in the cave you found that you can't move another inch. You can't help but remember the countless times you've told someone _"Well, you can shove it up your ass!"_ because this must be exactly what it feels like to be shoved up someone's ass, besides the rockiness. You're curled in on yourself to the point of pain. Through the crack you've squeezed through, a sliver of your hideout cave is visible.

More importantly, the footsteps that prompted you to hide in the first place are clearly audible.

Maybe you're overreacting. A lot of lowbloods know where you're squatting while infantry moves north; they could be coming to deliver news or check up on you. They actually care, surprisingly. It's weird. After sweeps of living with the fear that anyone who knew of your mutant status would shun you, it's surreal to know that a ton of those trolls you've never even met would die for you. But that's the motto of the lowblood rebels: _United as one, together we conquer._

Still, you're not risking it. For all you know that's a highblood soldier with orders to kill every damn lowblood they can find, and one look at you is enough to tell them that you're a target. The bright red pupils are a big fucking clue. On top of that, you're not exactly wearing clothes that scream "I'm a rich nooksucking highblood." Your hooded cloak is tattered and dirty and definitely lowblood.

You strain your auricular sponge clots to listen. The visitor is at the mouth of the cave, judging by how close they sound. You really hope they aren't a highblood. Mainly because this cave is out in the middle of the fucking desert, and if the highbloods are searching out here, then they're not giving up easily. Also, your hiding spot is good, but if the fuckass bends down or kneels, they'll spot you in seconds.

They're walking slowly. You have your sickles clutched in both hands, even though attacking would be stupid. There's a good chance they're not an enemy. And if they are, there's a good chance they're not alone. You really don't want to jump into a fight where you're outnumbered, especially in your state. The last meal you had was a few nights ago. It wasn't even a meal, really, just a bowl of Kraft grub sauce that one of the older soldiers smuggled to you.

The mystery person finally steps into the light. It's just another lowblood, thank god. You don't recognize him, but that's no surprise. There are a fuck ton of lowbloods in this army. You can't tell what his place is on the hemospectrum is, either. Also not a surprise. Any indication of blood caste (certain clothing, symbols, etc.) is banned by your army's leader. The whole basis of the rebellion is to abolish the caste system entirely. This mission comes from the teachings of the Signless, some peace-loving mutant who preached a few sweeps before you made it out of the trials. Apparently the guy is still alive somewhere. You think that's crap, and the highbloods killed him, but it's not up to you to make assumptions around here.

"Pst," you hiss. The troll jumps and immediately draws his weapon, a lance. So, probably a brown blood.

"Oh, it's you." When he sees you, his lance pops back into his strife deck and out of sight. "I recognize you. Mutant bro, right?"

The way the guy says "bro" reminds you of your former moirail, so you struggle out of your rocky prison and dust yourself off, leaving your hood down and returning your sickles to your deck. "Yeah."

"I'm Trenor," he says in greeting, nodding to you.

You kind of want to be an ass, but instead decide to be halfway decent for once. "Karkat."

"This your cave?" he asks, waving one hand at the general surroundings.

"For now," you answer, scowling at the damp, leaking roof. It hasn't been a fucking picnic here. "When the Summoner gives the order, I'm getting the hell out of here."

The Summoner is the troll who was ballsy enough to start a full out war between highbloods and lowbloods, and now commands an entire army of trolls, without any help. Pretty cool guy, actually. No one really sees him. He mostly keeps to himself. The only troll he contacts frequently is one of the head cavalreapers, and that's only to give an order, which the cavalreaper relays.

"Didn't mean to infringe, bro," Trenor says, holding up his hands. "I'm just looking for a place to bunker down. Whole fuckin' airship flew over the canyon earlier, had highblood written all over it."

"Bastards," you mutter, moving cautiously to the mouth of the cave and checking the skies. You see nothing but the moons and the stars. "It looks clear now. We'll probably get the signal any minute now---"

As you speak, the sound of a bone hitting a drum three times in slow succession is heard, echoing across the valley of sand and stone. The signal means to move carefully towards the destination. As far as you know, the army isn't poising to attack, yet. Just getting closer to the coastline. Last you heard, the Summoner is planning a serious fight with the highbloods stationed there, to gain control of some of their ships. If all goes well the army might not have to sneak through deserts and whatever else anymore to get where they're going. For now, though, you're stuck taking the long way to the coast.

"Finally," Trenor laughs. He darts out onto the ledge and begins scaling the rock with his bare hands. The cave happens to be about thirty feet off the ground, but this fact made you feel safe when you found it. Trenor pauses on his way down and says, "See you later, mutant bro. Got some people to meet up with."

He disappears into one of the other caves drilled into the rock. You take a glance back, to make sure you haven't forgotten any of your meager possessions, then swing your legs over the ledge and make your way down the powdery rock. You drop to the sand easily enough and see lowbloods popping out of crevices everywhere, a sea of soldiers appearing out of nowhere. You move close to the rocks that jut out of the sand whenever you can as you begin the trek.

No one knows how far you'll be walking, so you're prepared to move until imminent sunrise. As you've said before, being a soldier isn't easy, but it's worth it. Ironically, it's the only reason you're still alive.

The sand is weighing down your boots and getting in your eyes. You pull your hood down over as much of your face as you can and struggle on, thankful that it's at least a cool night. You groan when you realize that you'll have to deal with this until the infantry stops. Then, unexpectedly, another signal rings through the air. Bone on drum, two times and lightning-fast.

You know this signal well: Prepare for battle.

With the weight of your sickles in both hands, you feel just badass enough to take down a few highbloods.

~ATH

  
**Your name is JOHN EGBERT.**   


**Actually, John is a nickname for JOHONN, but you don't tell people that. You happen to be NINE AND A HALF SWEEPS OLD, and a BLUE BLOOD. CERULEAN, to be exact. Recently you have been recruited to the IMPERIAL FLEET as a GAMBLIGNANT to defend the Empire against LOWBLOOD SCUM. You don't really think of lowbloods as scum, but they are a DANGER TO THE EMPIRE and therefore need to be fought.**

**What will you do?**

Not a lot of people would believe it, but you are a Gamblignant.

For pretty much all of time, the word Gamblignant was associated with bad things: pirates, mutiny, massacres, political unrest. Mainly because that's all true. The marauders have, throughout history, proven to be involved in the most vicious of crimes, and the bloodiest battles. You have read the texts---about four centuries ago, a particularly nasty Gamblignant fleet even killed the reigning Empress and set aflame the capital.

Things have changed, however. No one knows exactly what happened, but the generally accepted story is that the Empress somehow convinced the Marquise (quite possibly the most terrifying troll you can name off the top of your think pan, besides the Condesce herself) to ally with the Imperial Fleet. By that logic, you are a Gamblignant and an Imperial Soldier, but most of the marauders still think of themselves as, well, marauders. Only now they're getting double the coin for murdering and pillaging.

In any case, you would never have considered joining the most ruthless fighting force on Alternia. It's mostly to follow your moirail and keep a close eye on her, since she is definitely a handful and could get into quite a lot of trouble on a pirate ship. Vriska insists that she doesn't need you grubsitting her like a chump, but she hasn't outright objected. Another reason you decided to sign onto the Gamblignants is that as a troll who is no longer an adolescent (though you wouldn't call yourself and adult, either), you are required by order of the Empress to be an active part of the fight against the lowbloods.

So, to sum all of that up, you are a Gamblignant and so is your moirail.

You blink your eyes sleepily. Once the sopor is mostly cleared out of them, you sit up in your recuperacoon, using the lip of the pod to drag yourself up. You sit on the hard outer shell of the 'coon and allow more of the slime to drip from your bare skin. You're the first person awake, thankfully, so none of the burly and muscular trolls on the crew can laugh at your small frame. You can't help it if you're only nine and a half and a little wiry! Jeez, some people.

You rub your hands on the shorts you wore to sleep and climb out of the recuperacoon. The seven other 'coons in this cabin are still occupied by snoozing pirates. You'd been dismayed when you'd learned you'd have to share a room with several marauders, since they are quite unruly and not unlikely to slit your chitinous windhole in your sleep. Now, after several weeks aboard the ship, and no injuries to report, you're less worried about your personal safety.

There's a modest chest bolted to the creaking wooden floor next to your pod. You've put a pretty heavy lock on it, but only because you wouldn't be surprised in the least to see one of your blockmates breaking in and stealing something. You unhook the key from the chain around your neck and unlock it. The chest is divided into several sections; the largest one is where your clothes are folded nearly. Your husktop rests on the stack of garments. The smaller compartments are just for little things that you won't bother to wrestle into your stupid sylladex. Vriska keeps bugging you about changing your ridiculous stack modus, but you're determined to master it in one day.

You make sure your hands are clean before carefully extracting your clothes, which you carry with you out into the hallway and then into the hygieneblock. A quick dip in the bath tub to get the sopor off and then you're out. You won't dilly-dally in there, on the off chance that one of the Gamblignants actually wakes up as early as you and has a hankering to wash up. Once you've dried off, you yank on your pants and boots, struggle to correctly button your shirt the first time around, and finish it off with your coat. The heavy thing is standard-issue among the Gamblignants, though yours is black with cerulean blue buttons and cuffs. The higher-ranked pirates wear versions that are solidly colored with their hemospectrum class.

You stop back in your shared respiteblock to throw your shorts into the chest and lock it up again. The others are just beginning to wake, so you hurry out of the block, fixing your cutlass around your waist as you go. Though your main strife specibus is hammerkind, all Gamblignants also have swordkind and pistolkind in their strife decks. Speaking of pistols---you find yours in the inside pocket of your coat, which is a relief, because you'd been sure you'd lost it. Once the pistol is secure in its holster on  
your left thigh, you are officially in full uniform and at least twenty-five percent less likely to be culled by the captain.

There's still the lightest tinge of orange on the horizon when you make it to the deck, but the deadly sun is out of sight and this half of Alternia is rising from slumber. You have a routine where you wait for Vriska on the deck, watching the waters roll by, so that the two of you can go down to the nutritionblock together. Right now the ship isn't too far out---you can just see the coastline in the distance. You zero in on the stars overhead before someone comes up behind you.

"Stargazing again, Egbert?" Vriska questions. You don't have to see her to know she's wearing her trademark wild grin; it's evident in her voice. "Lame."

"It's not lame!" you protest, pointing to a very familiar constellation that looks a bit like a scorpion. "See, there's the cerulean star system."

The scorpion-shaped constellation is the star system believed to guide trolls of your caste; some cobalts even pray to these specific stars in times of need. You never have, but then again, you've never had the need.

"Well, that one''s not lame. But only because it's the best! All the other ones are lame." She nods assuredly to herself, confident that the other eleven star systems are inferior in every way.

"Yeah, yeah." You're used to this kind of talk from her. "How'd you sleep? You didn't kill anyone again, did you?"

You can't help but remember your first night aboard the ship, where some creepy pirate troll had hit on Vriska in her cabin; she'd promptly stabbed him through the blood pusher, because that's just the kind of stuff that people do when they're part of the Gamblignants. Regardless, you'd had a discussion with her about refraining from murder. The whole thing went over her head, and now she's basking in the respect that the rest of the crew gives her for proving herself to be a huge 8itch, as she puts it.

"Oh, have a little faith, John," she says flippantly, complementing her words with a characteristic hair flip. "No one messes with me anymore, you know that."

She seems genuine, so you let the matter drop and suggest, "Let's go down to the nutritionblock already. I'm starved."

In the corridors, more of the crew is up and about, but you're less worried about your well-being with Vriska. Because you're pale with her, your shipmates seem to assume you're just as murderous by association. You've decided it's best not to dispute this.

The nutritionblock is mercifully empty, so you sit down to eat some of the exotic fruits the ship has stocked up on recently. The evening meal is pretty uneventful, up until the captain's arrival. The captain is a navy blood with a strong jaw and jagged horns. He's holding a letter in his hand, sharp teeth bared in a lopsided grin.

"Your attention, please," he says with mock-courtesy. Few of the trolls in the now-full block seem to care, until he adds, "I have a message from the Marquise."

The silence is almost instant. Some trolls lean forward eagerly, others halting in mid-chew. Across from you, Vriska watches with rapt attention. You're smart enough not to engage her in conversation. Marquise Spinneret Mindfang is her hero; in fact, when  
the two of you met over Trollian, she even introduced herself as the Marquise, all those sweeps ago. She speculates that Mindfang is even genetically related to her, though you don't encourage her to get her hopes up.

"That's better," the captain appraises, still grinning. "Now, according to this, those lowblood scum are planning an attack on Dualscar's ports. The Marquise wants the whole fleet there when it happens. We're heading for the coast as we speak. Also, you filthy goddamn bilge rats, have your blades sharp, and try not to get too mucked-up in all the piss blood we spill!"

With that there's a great cheer; you even grin, despite yourself. Even though you've never been much of a killer, you're a troll, and it's in your blood to get hyped about these things. You make a mental note to polish your hammer before the fight and make sure your pistol is loaded.

"This is going to be fucking awesome," Vriska announces, smiling so wide that it looks like her face is going to split in two. "Our first fight as Gamblignants."

"Yep," you agree, with less gusto than her, but considerable enthusiasm.

After the evening meal, everyone has something to do on the deck. For you and Vriska, since you're the youngest trolls on the crew, you're stuck with coiling spare ropes around the masts and rails. It's dull and rubs your hands raw. Nonetheless, the air of excitement buzzing through the rest of the crew helps you make quick work of it. Once everything's in place, and the coastline grows closer by the moment, quite a bit of slacking off takes place. Most of the pirates begin a rousing chorus of some old sea shanty, which the rest of the crew dances to. You twirl Vriska across the port side of the deck. It's fun to be pale.

The party must come to an end eventually, though. The once-distant coast has grown close. Other Gamblignant ships join yours, until the whole fleet has gathered. As impressive as the fleet is, it's crowned by its jewel, the sleek black vessel that Mindfang herself commands. Your head turns in awe as the Marquise's ship cuts through to the head of the fleet and drops anchor. Your ship, as well as the others surrounding it, anchors as well.

The coastline and docks are soon swallowed up by a fog, and anticipation grows. You squint through the thick mist. The closest ships to you are barely visible. These aren't good conditions for a fight, making you glad that the lowblood army doesn't have the kind of resources to stage any kind of attack against the Gamblignants. You feel at ease.

"I don't like this." Vriska's flat voice distracts you from your thoughts. You give her a look.

"What are you talking about?"

"I have a bad feeling," she elaborates, eyes scanning the fog rising off the bay. "We're sitting quackbeasts."

"You're just paranoid," you laugh.

Turns out she's right.

The first ship to take a hit is the one closest to the shore. You don't understand what's happening until the entire ship is crumbling in on itself engulfed in flames. Gamblignants are screaming. The ship begins to sink beneath the surface of the water, and as it goes, the shell-shock wears off. Pirates are hard to take by surprise; and when you manage it, they don't take kindly to it.

The second ship to get hit is close to you, so you can see the missile-like projectile make impact and explode. You can even smell the smoke. Amidst the pirates jumping overboard, you catch sight of the main mast giving into fast-spreading flames and crashing to the deck, speeding up the submerging of the ship. You're so transfixed by the sight that you don't notice a third missile screaming towards the ship that you happen to be standing on.

 _"Son of a---!"_ It's only because Vriska is paying attention that you're still alive. You don't even know what's happening; one moment, your feet are planted firmly on the deck, and the next, Vriska's flinging herself at you, and the two of you are tumbling over the rail in complete free-fall.

Halfway to the water, the ship explodes.

Halfway to the water, you and your moirail are flung by the force of the missile at the crashing waves.

Halfway to the water, the fleet is burning. 

~ATH

**Your name is ARADIA MEGIDO.**

**You like to think that you are a GOOD SOLDIER, loyal, obedient, even though it's NOT WHAT YOU WANT TO BE. You had dreams of being an ARCHEOLOGIST, but since the ALTERNIAN CIVIL WAR began, you've PUT THEM ON HOLD. The lowbloods' revolution has no place for archeologists, so you are just going to get through this alive and HOPE FOR THE BEST. This is hard, since you have to deal with the VOICES OF THE DEAD, but you're nothing if not OPTIMISTIC.**

**What will you do?**

You sigh longingly at the trees as you march. You and the others in your unit are currently trekking through a southern jungle, batting away blood-sucking insects and slogging through the ice that coats the ground. The plants have adapted to the cold weather by becoming carnivorous; every now and then, an inattentive soldier gets snatched up by thick vines and devoured alive.

Just another day on Alternia.

You have your whip out, ready to lash out at anything that so much as blinks at you funny. You have no intentions of dying out  
here. Even though the cold is seeping through your cargo pants and boots, and your shirt and vest aren't much warmer, and you're likely to collapse any minute, you simply must go on. You have people waiting for you out there.

Though it may surprise the other trolls in your unit, you really do have friends. You have a friend named Sollux that might be more than a friend. You have a friend named Tavros who is hopefully still alive, though with his timid disposition, he's not always the best partner in a fight. You have some other friends too, or at least, you had them, because they're highbloods and apparently that makes them better than you.

That's what your unit's leader tells you, anyway.

You won't dwell on it. You're feeling better, because the other soldiers have spread out to cover more distance, and being alone calms you. The rendezvous point isn't far. Though this area is usually a hub for highbloods, no one has reported anything as of yet. The electronic glasses you wear provide a constant stream of messages from the others across the left lens, and so far, everything is quiet.

For a moment.

The messages from around your unit begin to flood your vision. You stop, whip held high, and try to process the information as it flashes by. Most of the messages are by soldiers who are too far away from you to matter ― their coordinates are posted as well, and if they're not in range, you disregard for the time being.

You finally pick up on a status report from a troll that's scarily close to you.

**Private Eminoh Niddus [EN] opened communications with UNIT X34.**  
EN: i need some help here.  
EN: @nyone?  
Private Aradia Megido [AM]: im here  
AM: whats going on  
EN: nothing just @rcher@dic@tors dropping out of the fucking trees  
AM: how many  
AM: private  
AM: answer me  
 **Connection to Private Eminoh Niddus [EN] has been lost.**

You feel warm beads of maroon on your skin. Not good. Archeradicators are some of the best in the Empress's command, well trained with minute accuracy. They could shoot an arrow from miles away and hit their mark―

Perhaps only because of your quick realization, you drop to the snow, barely avoiding an arrow to the forehead. It lodges in the bark of a frozen tree and quivers ominously. There's only one way out of here alive, and that's to hide. No use playing dead ― archeradicators don't rest until they're certain every enemy has an arrow through the blood pusher.

You know there's no use fighting, not in the dark, not when the archeradicators could be absolutely anywhere. You burrow deeper into the snow. It doesn't cover all of you, obviously, but the winter blues of your outfit match the frost that coats the plants and trees. From afar you might look at least somewhat like vegetation.

The crunch of boots on snow and ice destroy your hopes of living to see the end of this fight. Any archeradicator that finds you like this will probably laugh in your face and dispatch you without further hesitation. You open your eyes in defeat, knowing that the bright orange-yellow of your eyeballs and dark maroon irises will attract attention. The dark, hulking figure of a male troll comes to a stop a few feet away. The moons are blocked by the trees, though, and without your night vision glasses, which were lost in your dive to the ground, you can't see much of the troll.

And yet, he is oddly familiar.

A memory you've long since buried comes back to you.

Once upon a time, highbloods and lowbloods could be friendly, have relationships, not want to kill one another, etcetera etcetera etcetera. You remember these times of your youth well. You remember having friends in all colors of the hemospectrum, and you remember playing games with them.

One moment with these friends stands out in particular ― it was when your unofficial leader, Karkat, had organized a sixteen-way video chat between your group of friends. And you saw some of your friends for the first time, really saw them, saw their  
faces and how they styled their hair and their favorite shirts.

The troll beneath the window labeled centaursTesticle was far from your predictions; he had his broken teeth bared in distaste. You don't remember why. Something to do with fellow highblood Gamzee Makara using lewd language, but then again, CT had always been stuffy over Trollian. CT wore a sleeveless shirt and cracked sunglasses and had one horn snapped off almost to the base.

Even though you knew his name was Equius Zahhak, you liked to think of him as just nameless, faceless blue text.

Now, in the present, you stare at this straight-haired troll and his massive goggles and cannot believe that he might just be Equius Zahhak. He has the body, and there it is ― his arrow symbol ― splashed across his black uniform like a brand. You forget that he has an arrow saddled in his bow and could kill you at any time. Instead, you get to your knees, shaking off the snow, and stare at him.

His hesitation confirms everything. As he comes closer, he passes under a beam of purple moonlight, and you see that he hasn't changed much, besides getting bigger, somehow. His immense strength has been mastered since the last time you spoke to him; he handles the bow gently and there are no cracks in his goggles.

"Equius?" you ask.

"Gutterblood," he answers, and you realize that he really hasn't changed. Not at all.

Gutterblood. That's all you are to him and every other highblood on this god forsaken planet, nothing more than an animal. You are suddenly glad that Equius is going to kill you. You don't think you can stand to be here for another minute.

"What are you waiting for?" You tilt your head back, giving him access to shoot at your throat. "Do it."

He aims. Standing the way he is, ready to shoot, hair tickled by the wind, he looks majestic. He was born to do this, you think. Born to shoot. Born to kill.

"Do it," you repeat.

Equius swallows loudly. He's covered in sweat despite the chill. "You asked me to do this."  
"I know."

His fingers snap away from the arrow's tail and it streaks forward. You look down; you are somehow still surprised to see it sticking out of your chest. A dribble of maroon blood falls from your lips when you try to speak. The words don't come out, swallowed by the burning pain in your blood pusher, and you find yourself slumping over, eyes blankly fixed on the growing puddle of rust red that stains the snow.


	2. Introductions, Part the Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting in the first chapter is really fighting me. I'll probably get around to fixing that later, but for now have a brand new shiny well-spaced chapter!
> 
> Also, to loquaciousEscapist: Thanks for the tip! The tag clutter was actually bothering me a little.

**Your name is DAVE STRIDER.**

**Actually, this is not the name you were HATCHED WITH. You changed it for IRONIC PURPOSES. Irony is sort of your THING, along with SICK BEATS, SLAM POETRY, and just being an all-around COOL GUY. You happen to be a MUTANT, which kind of sucks sometimes, but you ROLL WITH IT. You've been hiding out in the DESERT with this WACK JOB that calls himself the SIGNLESS for a while now. He's a mutant, too, and tells you a lot about his PLANS for trollkind. He might have some WEIRD IDEAS, but he did START A WAR, so you'll give CREDIT where CREDIT is due.**

**What will you do?**

You're rummaging around in the hygieneblock for some sustenance when you hear the Signless returning. Wait, no, he has someone with him. Well, okay. That's a little weird. Despite the guy's major connections, he's not exactly the social type. In fact, he's fucking antisocial, communicating via chat clients and message boards, locked up all night in his respiteblock. It came as a shock to you when he announced a few hours earlier that he was going out. 

Of course, he has reason to be worried about showing his face. Even though the Empress's forces have pretty much given up the search for him, he's still a fugitive, and public enemy number one. You and him have spent all of your nine and a half sweeps living in this quiet desert town, so small it's not even on the map and barely shows up on satelite. The Signless has disappeared in the eyes of Alternia. The other trolls around town have never seen him, or you, for that matter. You two are pretty sneaky.

You abandon your search for food and head out into the livingblock. The Signless ignores you, embroiled in an intense conversation with a troll you've never met. The troll wears a yellow and black jumpsuit and a helmet. You hope the weird get up is supposed to be ironic. The Signless's usual cloak is draped over his shoulders, hood still on. You're about to put a word in when your hivemate notices you.

"Dave," he says, as if he's surprised to see you, when you haven't left the hive in God knows how long. "I didn't see you there."

"Hey," you reply nonchalantly. 

The Signless puts his hand on the troll's shoulder. "This is a good friend of mine. You may call him the Ψiioniic."

You roll your eyes behind your shades. All of the trolls that you've heard of in the Signless's inner circle go by codenames (the Signless, the Disciple, the Dolorosa, etc.), and to this day, you still don't know the Signless's real name. 

"There's much to discuss." The Signless's voice means business. "Right this way. Dave, don't stay up too late."

You're not surprised as the Signless and the Ψiioniic disappear into his block and lock the door, muffling their voices instantly. Your guardian has never told you much about the war and how he's involved. He treats you like a wiggler, excluding you from all of his important meetings and whatnot. The guy is practically your lusus, after all. You wonder when he's going to begin to trust you.

Fortunately for a cool troll like you, it's easy not to dwell on stuff like that.

You forget about eating and enter your own respiteblock, lazily kicking the door closed behind you. Ah, yes. Your fortress. It's hard having basically one troll in your life, but you manage, since you're a solitary dude as it is. You fiddle with your turntables for a while. You're well on your way to finishing up your latest beats when Trollian pings behind you. 

You open up your husktop. It was given to you by a hacker friend, who guaranteed it could never be traced back here. The Signless uses a similar one. Having a computer has really made hanging out in your block sweep after sweep easier, especially by using the chat client in question. The Signless wouldn't like to hear that you're talking to strangers, but a troll's got to do what he wants every now and then.

**gardenGnostic [GG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG]**

Oh. It's just Harley. You don't know a lot about Harley, whose first name is a mystery to you, though she has informed you that she's female and a mutant like you. Not the candy-red kind, but the lime kind. Which explains her weird text color. You'd always thought that lime bloods are extinct, so there's a good chance she's lying, but it's nice to believe there are other mutant freaks out there.

GG: hi dave! :D  
TG: hey harley  
TG: you gonna tell me your name yet or what  
GG: no, not yet silly  
GG: all in due time!  
TG: im just saying you should be fair  
TG: you fucking know everything about me  
TG: my first name my blood my favorite color  
TG: i bet you know who i have wet dreams about  
GG: . . .  
TG: oh my god you do dont you  
GG: i never said that!  
GG: look dave, we have a lot to talk about!  
TG: ah yes  
TG: more doomsday prophecies  
TG: lay it on me  
GG: my dreams have gotten more vivid recently  
GG: i mean, theyve always been very strong  
GG: but these are the worst ones yet  
GG: and if they come true, things are going to get way worse here  
TG: what do you mean here  
TG: like  
TG: wherever you are on this godforsaken planet  
TG: or like alternia in general  
GG: alternia in general!  
GG: the war is going to get even bloodier  
GG: soon high and lowbloods will be hellbent on killing each other  
TG: i thought they already were  
GG: kinda : |  
GG: but it will get so bad, theyll destroy everything!  
GG: the whole planet will be brought to its knees  
GG: millions will die, dave!  
TG: that sucks  
GG: yes, it does!  
GG: but im going to do something about it  
TG: that sounds kind of difficult  
TG: i mean  
TG: youre one troll  
TG: i dont really see what you can do about this  
TG: even with your lime blood powers and super lusus over there  
GG: my powers arent enough to stop this, and neither is bec  
GG: in fact, nothing i do by myself will prevent this!  
GG: ill need a lot of help  
TG: what are you getting at here  
GG: this is where you come in!  
TG: ok  
TG: even with my awesomeness  
TG: combined with all the weird shit youve got going on  
TG: this still sounds a little out of our league  
GG: there are more pieces to the puzzle!  
GG: lots more!  
GG: trolls from all over the spectrum, bright red to fuschia  
GG: i have a plan  
GG: sort of  
GG: but it will take a lot of careful orchestrating and more than a little luck!  
TG: look harley  
TG: i dont know how much i want to jump into this when i dont really know anything about you  
GG: fine dave  
GG: since you really really really want to know  
GG: my name is jade!  
TG: cool  
GG: thats it???  
GG: after sweeps of bugging me about this????  
TG: sorry  
TG: ill try to jump out of my seat next time  
GG: :(  
GG: ok dave  
GG: theres not a lot i can tell you now!  
GG: except that youre a hero  
GG: and you shouldnt forget it!!!  
TG: yeah right  
TG: what kind of a hero is literally breaking the law by existing  
GG: youll see when the time comes!  
GG: but theres a lot that needs to be done now  
GG: hopefully ill see you soon dave!  
GG: bye!!! :D  


**gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]**

You quirk an eyebrow at the conversation, then close the chat window. Jade. Jade Harley. You like it.

Jade Harley is by far the weirdest person you know, since you don't really know that many people, and by the sounds of it she's cooked up something crazy for you. Whatever. You close up shop and are about to climb into your recuperacoon when you stop, bare chested, and slip outside. The Signless's door is still closed. You press the side of your head to it and listen. Snippets of their conversation just barely reach you, words that don't make a whole lot of sense.

_"The Empress will find you if you stay, Signless."_

_"There's no where else for me to go, friend..."_

_"And what of the boy? He'll be affected as well."_

_"Dave is stronger than you think."_

_"Not him. The other mutant."_

_"What of him? He's safe in the Summoner's care."_

_"He is your descendant. The Empress won't rest until all three of you are dead."_

_"The plan will proceed as we discussed. As soon as it's done, I'll leave."_

_"There's no need for this! I can get you and your boy out safely, and we'll revise when you're out of harm's way."_

The Signless's voice drops then, and you know that whatever they're talking about it very important. You can't hear anything from the block. Giving up, you return to your block in defeat and sink into the sopor for a day's rest. 

From what you've heard from the Signless and the Ψiioniic, and from Jade, you're pretty sure you're not going to live to see your tenth sweep. 

~ATH

**Your name is FEFERI PEIXES.**

**You used to be the HEIRESS APPARENT, but now you are just a PRISONER OF WAR. The IMPERIOUS CONDESCENSION has kept you under lock and key for the last two sweeps. This is because you know enough of her SECRETS to turn ALL OF TROLL KIND against her. One of these days she is going to CULL YOU, but you TRY NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT. You've spent your time in captivity GATHERING INFORMATION which you hope to use against your ancestor if you're ever able to ESCAPE.**

**What will you do?**

What the Condesce doesn't know is that the ventilation shaft in the corner of your block carries her voice perfectly from her meeting room to your waiting ear, and that you have stored so many of the words she herself has said in your memory that your think pan might burst.

Regardless, you are there all hours of the night, pressed up against the grate of the vent in complete silence.

You don't always hear things. Sometimes you go days before the Empress chooses this particular block to confer in, horrible nights where you stew in your uncomfortably wide recuperacoon, obsessing over everything you know of the war thus far. It's hard, being trapped on this horrible flagship, and it''s even harder to know that Alternia, a few thousand feet below you, is tearing itself apart under the rule of a troll who cares more for anarchy than equality. 

During these quiet periods you like to mull over what _you_ would do if you were the one in charge, how things would be different, how they would be _better_. Everything would be fair. The hemospectrum would be the first to go, then maybe the slave trade. No, the military. Or maybe...

Your silent plans of action usually occupy your mind. When you're not planning, you're listening, and when you're not doing either of theses things, you're writing. One of the guards that escorts you to and from the hygieneblock every night is sympathetic; he brings you paper and pens when the need arises. You have extensive records of everything you've heard and detailed schematics of your solutions to the empire's problems.

It's a shame none of them will ever be put to use.

As depressing as it is, you and every troll that knows about situation understands it. You will never escape. You will never leave this ship. If you do, it's because you'll be dead and your corpse is being ejected into the reaches of cold, infinite space. You have no hope for anything resembling a future. You imagine the Empress---your own blood ancestor, no less---will keep you alive until she herself is close to death; then she'll cull you. You are certain that she will make it so that if she isn't on the throne, then you won't be, either.

Tonight the Condescension is where you want her to be. The sound of the meetingblock's door opening and the _swish, swish_ of her wild hair on the steel floor as she walks travels through the vents to you, followed by the lightest rustle as she sits down. She has only one guest, to your surprise. Their footsteps are not in any way as light or casual as hers; rather, the guest's heavy boots clunk loudly as they take measured steps to their own seat.

You wonder who the mystery troll is. This meetingblock, you've discovered, is where she discusses matters of war, and her conversational patterns are always military officers. Most likely it's some unlucky bastard bringing bad news. You hope she doesn't cull them out of anger.

"General, make this quick," the Condesce demands. "I have much to do before the sun arrives."

Your eyebrows furrow in surprise. More often than not, the trolls who confer with the Empress are high-ranking, but not the _highest_ ranking. Only one other time has this troll---the most decorated and powerful troll within the military---visited the Condesce, nearly six perigrees ago, just after the incident involving lowblood bombs in a highblood-controlled province. He'd arrived to discuss the rising death counts and out-of-control fighting.

General Dualscar does not acknowledge the order, opting to begin his report. "Lowbloods hijacked a truck full of explosive projectiles headed for my ports. They used these projectiles to attack the Marquise and her fleet---"

"How severely?"

"The Gamblignants had no idea of what was happening until it was too late," he clarifies, without a hint of compassion for those who've passed. "Mindfang is fishing the few survivors from the water as we speak."

"An entire fleet, gone," the Condesce murmurs, attempting to sound nonchalant but giving away her fury. "Anything else?"

"Neophyte Redglare and those in her command are advancing on the Summoner's forces." There is a note of distaste in Dualscar's voice.

"You sound displeased."

"She moved without consulting me," he says indignantly. "She has neither the rank nor the resources to override the command process. If she is slaughtered along with her fighters, then so be it."

The Empress sighs. "I will find suitable punishment. What else?"

"Darkleer's archeradicators have made quick work in the jungles. Almost laughable, really."

"I expect nothing less." She pauses, and you take the time to scrawl down more notes on the scrap of paper the guard squirreled away for you. "However. We must discuss the Highblood."

The general makes a noise of mild disgust. "That fool?"

"You would do well to respect him," the Condesce says slyly. "He is technically a higher rank than you, though you place above him on the hemospectrum."

Dualscar is silent. She continues. "He is a powerful ally of mine, but he is difficult to control. Too loose. Too wild. Too quick to kill. Something must be done."

"Good luck," he scoffs. "His church of clowns would be in an uproar if you killed him."

"Oh, I don't plan to kill him, General." Her voice takes on a playful tone. "I will make use of him elsewhere."

"How so?"

"As soon as I give the order, he himself will be leading the laughsassins and subjuggulators into battle. The lowbloods will decimated."

You swallow hard. The Grand Highblood is one of the most dangerous trolls on Alternia, ruthless and deadly. He's only been calm all these sweeps because he's been sitting on his throne, looking over the Mirthful Church and praying to his clown-gods. His recent kills have all been his own subjects. With him on the loose, you shudder to think of what he'll do.

"One last thing, before you go." Your ancestor stands. The door opens. Dualscar gets to his feet, but doesn't move as she gives him her parting words. "About my descendant."

Oh, dear.

"I've grown bored of keeping her in captivity, so see to it that the guards put her on a shuttle tomorrow evening for the Highblood's church. Let him have his way with her. A warm-up for his grand unveiling, I should say."

"I was under the impression that you wanted her culled?"

"I do." She laughs. "The Highblood will do worse." 

Your royal blood turns to ice.


	3. Introductions, Part the Third

**Your name is NEPETA LEIJON.**

**You are one FIERCE KITTY. You have serious skills with your hidden claw blades, and tend to overdue it sometimes with the CAT PUNS. Despite the very serious war going on, you remain as LIGHTHEARTED as possible and still love to play games! You don't get to play all that much anymore. Most of the time, you are busy HUNTING AND DESTROYING HIGHBLOOD SOLDIERS. It's been hard without your MOIRAIL but you're managing.**

**What will you do?**

The hidden blades of your left hand dig into the trunk of the tree, while the blades of your right hand curl around the branch you've perched on. Ten feet or so to the ground if your calculations are correct. Your keen sense of hearing picks up the heavy footsteps as they come closer in the shadowy forest, occasionally matched with a gruff command. You look to the tree to your left; another lowblood rebel is poised there, his spiked mace swinging menacingly in his hand.

Your unit's leader clicks her tongue from her spot several trees over. Your eyes instantly flick to her. She waits, to make sure all of the hidden rebels are watching, then retrieves a gas mask from her sylladex and slips it over her face. The rest of the unit follows suit. Once the mask is snug over your mouth and nose, goggles tight over your eyes, you look to your superior for further instruction. She has now removed one of her poison grenades from her belt. All the while, the footsteps grow closer.

You understand what the plan is. One of your own grenades clutched now in both hands, you prepare to twist it, to release the chamber of noxious gas. The targets are now in sight. You shimmy to the end of your branch, ready to drop down onto the path as soon as the order is given. The troop of highblood soldiers marches in tight formation along the forest path, led by a seadweller who outranks his soldiers by leaps and bounds, completely unsuspecting. Your unit's leader holds up one finger.

Her hand closes into a fist, and she activates her grenade.

You and your comrades imitate her in perfect synchronization. The grenades, already hissing blueish gas, fall to the forest floor in one fell swoop. Soon the grass and shrubs are covered in the haze. The highbloods, coughing and spluttering, attempt to arm themselves; they fail, dropping to their knees and clutching their throats. Left alone, the gas would eventually kill them, but that's not quick enough for your liking. 

You leap from the tree and land lightly in the cloudy battle. The nearest highblood tries to scramble away on his hands and knees; you dispatch him with one swipe. More of the rebels put the soldiers out of their misery. The gas now reaches over your head and stretches far into the forest. Even the highbloods who somehow managed to stumble away from the initial attack are toast, you note with some satisfaction. 

The blue haze impairs visibility slightly, so you climb a few feet up and survey the fight from above. You can hardly call it a fight. The highbloods never land a single blow. The rebels, whooping victory cries, finish the last of their helpless opponents with brutal attacks. Your own claws are covered in a spectrum of cool blood colors. 

Your unit's leader, a yellow blood, smirks broadly from a high branch, cleaning her blade casually. All of the rebels wait for her command as the fog of poison thins.

"Well done." Her voice is muffled by the mask. "Hide the bodies."

You hook your claws under a fallen soldier's shoulders and drag her into the underbrush, expertly cloaking the corpse. Soon all that's left of the battle scene is the blood, great pools of royal blood that would go for large sums on the black market. You see more than a few of the rebels stooping to bottle the "liquid gold" before it seeps into the dirt. You, having had a highblood in your pale quadrant for most of your young life, can't bring yourself to do it.

You frown, putting thoughts of Equius from your mind. There's no use thinking of him. He's probably doing fine without you, mastering the bow with all the other archeradicators. Maybe it's better this way. He always believed the hemospectrum was the only thing standing between order and chaos; maybe he's _glad_ to have a useless midblood like you out of the way.

No. This won't help you.

You turn your attention to your superior again, who has now waded through the fog to stand in the midst of her fighters. "You've done well, all of you. Now into the trees. Base camp awaits."

You spring agilely up a thick trunk and pause on a sturdy branch, charting your course. With your cat-like physicality you dart from tree to tree with ease. The others can hardly keep up with you. You are reminded of your young adventures with your lusus, Pounce De Leon, who awaits you in your cave back home. You sigh forlornly at the thought of the kitty all alone.

The trees begin to thin, and then they end entirely, giving way to a clearing of soft grass that you drop to lithely. A congregation of tents occupy the space. You find yours easily enough, what with the letters AC splattered on the flap in olive green. Within you find the mat that you sleep on and the remains of the antlerbeast you hunted for dinner a few nights ago. Food in the army isn't a common provision; you take it upon yourself to hunt as usual.

You are about to flop down for a rough sleep (since there's no way to carry around your recuperacoon, you and the others choke down pure sopor and hope for the best) when a rebel pokes his head into your tent. "Don't get too comfy there, Kitty-Cat. Boss wants everyone out here."

He leaves you alone. You sigh again, tossing your gas mask to the floor and returning outside. The others, covered in blood, are assembled out on the grass, facing the unit leader's tent. She stands before it, holding the barely-functioning radio that links you to the Summoner's main army. A transmission is going through.

_"This message goes out to any rebels in the area,"_ a breathless voice pleads. _"We're under attack. It's bad . . . oh, god!"_

A minor explosion is heard. After an agonizing moment, the troll's voice crackles over the line again. _"Please . . . Neophyte Redglare's got way too many for us to handle. Gah!"_

The sounds of the battle continue, but the troll doesn't speak again. Your superior sets the old radio down and smiles. "What do you say, rebels? Got a taste for some teal blood?"

Some cheer at this; you can only think of a teal blooded girl you used to know who roleplayed with you as children. You desperately hope she isn't part of the attack. Her, or any of your old pals, really. 

"Well, pack up, then. We leave in ten minutes."

~ATH

  
**Your name is SOLLUX CAPTOR.**   


**You're pretty much the BEST PROGRAMMER EVER, in your humble opinion. For this reason the CULT OF THE SIGNLESS has recruited you to perform a DANGEROUS MISSION on a HIGHBLOOD-CONTROLLED LUNAR BASE. As far as the highbloods know, you are a BLUE BLOOD who lives to serve the Empress. As a spy you are CONSTANTLY IN DANGER, but you figure you might as well do SOMETHING USEFUL.**

**What will you do?**

You drum your fingers on the keys, irritated. The file you're trying to access would be a great help right now, but you don't have clearance. You could hack it, you guess. But it would be tough to cover your tracks. And you definitely don't want anyone to know that their kind of douchey but still trustworthy programmer is actually a lowblood spy. 

Even thinking this, even when you know what the highbloods would do to you if they uncovered the truth, your blood pusher doesn't speed up. Not a single bead of tell-tale mustard sweat appears at your hairline. Your yellow irises remain hidden behind indigo blue contact lenses, further buried beneath your usual glasses. Outwardly, you are who you say you are. And not a damn troll can tell you otherwise.

Of course, one scrape and the jig's up. But that's why you stay locked up in your terminal all night.

You're too carefully trained to panic at anything. You get to work tearing down the file's defenses, smirking a little. You're lucky you have a private work station. Anyone looking over your shoulder would wonder why you're not coding viruses to destroy lowblood tech, and instead breaking into the Condesce's own files. 

After some dicey work the file's contents are spilled across your screen. Satisfied, you scroll through them. They're documents, the Condesce's own words, kept out of the reach of prying eyes. Judging by the complexity of the firewall they weren't meant for even the higher-ups in her command. You've hit a gold mine.

You find transcripts of an online conversation between her and the Grand Highblood himself; you immediately place a tracer on the chat client and their trolltags, so that you'll be alerted if they sign on again. Then you decode the meticulously encrypted log. The fuchsia and purple words stretch all over your monitor. You drink them in, re-typing everything into a blank document as you do. The document, when finished, is sent straight to the Ψiioniic, who will hopefully guard it well, wherever he is.

You sit back in your chair and crack your knuckles. It would be great to let your psionics do the work for a while, but your telekinetic abilities belong strictly to the yellow caste and, to the rest of the trolls on this godforsaken base, you are of very noble blood. You roll your eyes at the airtight window next to you. This particular lunar colony is a drag sometimes, especially when everything you see out of your window is either black space or pink moon. You draw the curtains and sink into the darkness of your tiny work space. Much better.

The conversation is still on screen. You read it more carefully, raising your eyebrows every so often. It's mostly about the Grand Highblood's plans to enter the fight---very bad news---and news of the war. But the final topic the two discuss is the one that sticks. You swallow audibly, and re-read the Empress's parting words. _My descendant will be on your doorstep within a few nights. Make sure she's dead before you attack._

You should have known.

You lost contact with all of your highblood friends when the war began, lost them all to the 47th Empirical Degree. They went their own ways. You had never thought about where Feferi Peixes had gone, what she'd done. But of course the Condescension wouldn't let her live. How obvious. Your hands hover over the keys, but for once, you know that you can't do anything to save her. Your skills as a hacker won't stop the Highblood from tearing her apart.

Except.

You swallow and open Trollian. God, you haven't used this thing in sweeps.

**twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling  caligulasAquarium [CA]**

TA: look.   
TA: ii know what you're goiing to 2ay.   
TA: ju2t 2hut your 2elf piityiing mouth for a miinute and lii2ten.   
CA: like hell i wwill   
CA: youre breakin the fuckin laww right noww and i dont wwant to be a part of it   
CA: i could report you to the authorities if i wwanted to   
TA: ff ii2 goiing to diie iif you dont 2hut up and help me.   
CA: wwhy should i believve anythin a pissblood like you tells me   
TA: becau2e iif you dont the giirl you've been piiniing for wiill be a mutiilated corp2e.   
CA: fuck this   
CA: i cant believve im listenin to this horseshit   
TA: ii don't care.   
TA. ju2t tell me thii2. where are you riight now?   
CA: wwouldnt you like to knoww   
TA: a2 2upriisiing a2 thii2 may be two an egotii2tiical douche liike you, ii'm not tryiing two get iin your pant2.   
TA: but thii2 iinformatiion wiill deciide whether ff liive2 or diie2 2o hurry up.   
CA: fine   
CA: im on the condescensions flagship   
CA: theres a ceremony goin on tomorroww night   
TA: forget the fuckiing ceremony.   
TA: thii2 ii2 good for u2.   
CA: wwhy   
TA: becau2e you're exactly where 2he ii2.   
CA: wwait   
CA: wwhat kind of danger is she in   
TA: the empre22 i2 goiing two kiill her.   
TA: accordiing two my record2 2he'll be boardiing a 2huttle toniight.   
CA: and wwhat the fuck am i supposed to do about that   
TA: you're goiing to re2cue her dumba22.   
TA: now lii2ten carefully.   
TA: the 2huttle ii2 leaviing 2oon.   
TA: you have two do whatever iit take2 two make 2ure 2he iisn't on it.   
CA: i still dont knoww wwhy i should believve you   
TA: fiine. don't do what ii 2ay.   
TA: ii dare you two go by the grand hiighblood'2 iin a few day2 and 2ee how many piiece2 of her you can fiind.   
CA: jesus fuck   
CA: the grand highblood   
TA: ye2. hiim.   
CA: ok   
CA: but if i find out that youre playin me or somethin ill cull you myself   
TA: faiir enough.

**twinArmageddons [TA] ceased trolling  caligulasAquarium [CA]**

You hope that will be enough.

~ATH

  
**Your name is ERIDAN AMPORA.**   


**You take great pride in your VIOLET PURPLE BLOOD, and your seadweller status. You fight proudly for your Empress and want all LOWBLOODS to be brought to JUSTICE. Or CULLED. Whatever. Your high caste means you're in training to become the next ORPHANER, though that title is currently held by GENERAL DUALSCAR. For the time being you are just a REGULAR SOLDIER. This is fine, so long as you're still FIGHTING.**

**What will you do?**

You stare blankly at your palmtop for a while. The yellow and purple text burns into your oculars, until you're forced to turn the small tablet off and stow it in your sylladex. 

So.

You have a mission.

This is so stupid, you think. That fuckin' pissblood is just lying to get you in trouble, to distract you, to . . . help you. What if he's right? What if your former moirail-slash-flush-crush is headed for a death at the hands of the most ruthless troll on Alternia? If it's true, and you stand by and let it happen, then you're no better than he is. You stand in the center of your block and stare at the wall just a little longer, strengthening your resolve. You have to do this. 

You stride to your wardrobe and throw it open. Your clothes for the ceremony are hanging there, but you ignore them in favor of your officer's uniform. As the Orphaner-to-be and Dualscar's direct descendant, you'd been given this uniform to wear on special occasions. If any royal guards see you in it they'll assume you're on business for your training. You wrestle into the black slacks as quickly as physically possible, smoothing the violet stripes that run down the sides, and step into your boots. The stiff black shirt with a million gold buttons is next, finally topped by your violet-purple double-breasted jacket. The matching cape clasps neatly at your throat. 

The black peaked cap slips easily over your horns and you're out the door. The temporary block you're staying in while waiting for the ceremony of awards is several stories above the hull of the flagship, where shuttles leave and enter the ship. You ignore the elevator and dash down the stairs at the end of the hall, glad that the one troll you pass, an elderly seadweller, doesn't take notice of you. 

The stairs leave you next to the grand ballroom, where some higher-ups are in full dress, swaying on the dance floor or dining near the walls. You take a deep breath and walk briskly across the wide room. Most of the adult trolls ignore you, though the few that you've met watch you with interest as you pass, heels clicking loudly on the marble. You hold your breath until you've successfully evaded notice and left the room. Several featureless corridors later, you are descending a metal staircase into the hull of the flagship.

The bay where the shuttles are docked is nearly as wide as the ship, stretching far off on either side as you step off of the staircase. The bay doors are closed, meaning no shuttles are leaving or entering. Yet. You wait until all of the hull's workers aren't looking and dart to the nearest shuttle, a sleek black vessel that can carry up to six trolls and some cargo without breaking a sweat. You scan the row of shuttles. Fef has either boarded already, or is on the way. You have no way of telling which.

Salvation comes in the form of two very burly guards, half-dragging a smaller troll between them down the stairs. You mentally swear and crouch under a tool-strewn table. The guards pass. The troll between them has very long hair, familiar horns, and wears a torn blue-and-green skirt that you recognize well. So the pissblood wasn't lying---Fef is here.

You watch them until the shuttle blocks your view, then scurry to your feet and peer around the shuttle. The guards are already closing the door of a shuttle on Fef. You strain to hear them.

"This one's leaving in . . . Jesus, half an hour. Fuck that. You wanna grab something to eat?" the first guard asks, checking his watch.

The taller guard taps his foot loudly. "I don't know, man. Boss would be pissed if we left Princess Prisoner over here alone."

"Who's gonna know? She's locked up tight. It's not like anyone's gonna bug her, not if they value their lives."

"Alright, alright. But you're paying."

"Fuck you!"

The guards pass inches from you and retreat back up the stairs. You can't believe this brilliant stroke of luck. With a glance around to make sure none of the bay's workers are in the vicinity, you draw your cape around yourself and make your way up to her shuttle. The doors are opened only by a personnel key card, which, fortunately, you carry. You swipe the card and step back as the doors _hiss_ open. The neon green overhead lights barely illuminated the former heiress, who is slumped in her seat. She looks up as you enter.

". . . Eridan?" A look of absolute amazement and intense confusion crosses her face. 

"Sh," you command, feeling the doors close behind you. "We don't have a lot of time."

You hurry over. Her arms are bound behind her and cuffed to the seat by a thick chain. It looks impossible to break with your bare hands, so you work on the ropes binding her ankles to the chair. Once her legs are free you ponder over the very tough chain.

"How did you know how to find me?" she asks. Her voice is barely above a whisper, hoarse and shaky as if she hasn't spoken in a while.

"It's not important," you evade, tugging on the chain. Definitely not going to budge. You see only one solution.

You draw your rifle from your strife deck.

Her bright fuchsia eyes widen at the weapon. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"There's only one way to break this lock," you tell her, trying to sound confident and tough when you really feel sick.

You aim the weapon---which is much too big in the shuttle, too awkward---at where the chain clasps to the cuffs around her wrists. "Don't worry. Or move. Seriously, don't move."

She swallows audibly.

You fire.

The flash of muzzle fire lights up the dim interior of the shuttle, blinding you for a moment. You blink rapidly and check your handiwork. God, please let her be alright, please let that have worked. . . . 

Ears ringing from the echo of the bullet, you feel your whole body relax. The bullet cut clean through the chain. Breathing heavily, she brings her hands around and stares in wonder at the now-unchained silver cuffs on each wrist. "Nice shot."

"I try," you say. Your voice isn't nearly badass enough for your liking.

"We've got to get out of here." She jumps to her feet, wobbles slightly. You throw a steadying arm around her waist and pull her arm over your shoulders. She looks thin, malnourished. But you'll worry about that later. 

"I've got you." You kick the button next to the doors. They open way too slowly.

The first thing you notice as you help Fef down the ramp is that the bay doors are open, leaving a large rectangle of the floor empty and open to outer space. It is quite fortunate that the atmosphere of Alternia, unlike the atmosphere of Earth, reaches this far, because otherwise you two would be left without air and very much dead. Not that you know what Earth is. You pull her along between the rows of shuttles. The guards will return soon, or you'll be spotted by the bay's workers. You have to get out now.

When the coast is clear, you stop at the edge of the bay, staring down through the empty space at Alternia far below. Feferi's eyes are wide. You realize that she has probably been a prisoner here for perigrees, if not more, and hasn't seen Alternia in ages. You give her a moment to take it all in and try to strategize. There's no point hijacking a shuttle---they're easy to track. You notice some pods across the bay, perfect two-person pods that would shoot you straight to the surface. If you could get there in time---

"Hey! No one's supposed to be down here!"

Shit.

You throw a glance over your shoulder. A bay worker is rushing down the row of shuttles towards you. Alright, change of plans. But you're Eridan fuckin' Ampora and you can think on your feet! You look wildly around. On a bench nearby, emergency parachutes that soldiers use when they're being air dropped into a fight are lined up. You grab two of the heavy packs and hand one to Fef.

"Looks like we're gettin' back the hard way," you inform her, swinging a pack over your shoulders. She follows suit.

"Er, how do these work?" she inquires, hands hovering over the straps of the pack.

The bay worker is inches away. "Tell you on the way down!"

With that, you grab her hand and jump into space.


	4. Introductions, Part the Fourth

**Your name is TEREZI PYROPE.**

**Unlike most highbloods, you HATE this war. Because of it your dreams to become a LEGISLACERATOR were CRUSHED. Now you're stuck fighting when you would rather do ANYTHING ELSE, and your only hope is that the war will end soon. It's not likely, but WHATEVER. For now you're going to do what you're told and get through this ALIVE. HOPEFULLY.**

**What will you do?**

The desert sand is very, very cool under your fingers.

You're sitting cross-legged, running your hands over the sand, feeling the gritty wind against your skin. It feels nice. Some of the other soldiers in your platoon---all teals---are complaining about their eyes. You don't. Your sightless are protected just fine by your red-tinted shades. Your dragon cane juts from a dune near you, ready to be scooped up when the order is given. 

You hear soft footsteps pass you. The strong scents of teal and red confirm that it's Neophyte Redglare. Your blood pusher beats just a smidgen quicker just knowing that your role model is so close, but you've learned how to remain calm when faced with these situations. Redglare has been leading your platoon since you joined; you are, dare you say, used to her presence. You have yet worked up the nerve to ask her about her feats in the courtblock.

The platoon is silent. It awaits Redglare's words as she surveys the threat, binoculars pressed to her eyes. The rumor is that a chunk of the lowblood army is moving up ahead. You aren't making any assumptions, only waiting for the Neophyte to make a decision.

After an agonizing stretch of silence, she does.

"Gather your things," she orders, her voice commanding but not unkind, as usual. "We're attacking."

You hear one of the higher-ups scramble to where Redglare stands. "Wait, wait! What do you mean? What's out there?"

"A lowblood faction. A large one, too. I've got a visual on the Summoner."

Someone hisses. The Summoner is the most hated being in the highblooded world, besides perhaps the Signless, though you doubt his existence. He's probably a myth.

"What's the plan, miss?" a troll asks. You can smell the metal of his sword.

"Stay low to the sand," she replies, standing atop a high dune and looking out at the distance. "Hide when you have cover. The longer they go without spotting us, the better."

"Yes, ma'am."

And with that, the platoon is in motion. You take a moment to sniff the bright pricks of light that are the stars, the smudge of pink that is the moon, and rocket to your feet. You curl your hand around your cane and take off at a quick pace. Like the others, you keep behind the dunes that rise from the ground whenever possible. You begin to smell flavors of emotion. Some apprehension, some fear, but mostly an overwhelming excitement from the others.

You're not sure how you feel about all this. It's easier to keep your head down and move.

Redglare's signal to stop goes up. You crouch behind an outcropping of desert rock and listen to her words carefully. Meanwhile, a drum pounds twice in the canyon up ahead.

"They've seen us," the Neophyte announces. "On my signal, attack."

You curl in anticipation.

". . . Go. Now."

You don't know what prompted her decision, but you don't think anymore. You give yourself over to your base instincts. As a troll, that means an intense desire to rip someone limb from limb and spill blood. One of the others roars a battle cry, and as you take off, there is the hissing of a rocket screaming from a launcher. You smell the smoke as it races past you and makes impact somewhere up ahead. The brilliant colors of the subsequent explosion---red, yellow, orange---fill your vision for a moment.

You catch your first whiffs of your opponents. The thing about lowbloods is that they _smell_ so much better than highbloods, so much more vibrant. It's almost a shame to kill them. Judging by the strength of the smell, you know that a large number of lowbloods are congregated here. 

Finally the two groups meet in their desert arena, towers of rock rising up on either side. You give up on an conscious thought and whirl your cane with practiced ease. The sharpened blade slices the vulnerable throat of a yellow blood, then spins in half a second to pierce the chest of a brown blood. You wince at the bronze splatter that coats your clothes. Well, no use dwelling. You block the blade of another lowblood, evade, and double back to wallop them in the knees, smashing them over the head with the dragon skull once they've fallen.

The funny thing about this war is that though the lowbloods always outnumber the highbloods, the highbloods are more often victorious, due to sheer brutality, better training, and advanced technology. So it comes as quite a shock when the lowbloods hold their ground. More than once, you find yourself barely avoiding a fatal blow, only able to escape a painful death by your quick reflexes. As the fighting increases, it seems the lowbloods have another trick up their sleeves.

You're the first to notice the Summoner. He's swooping high over the battle on real, live, actual _wings_. What's so special about these wings is the light dust they produce, a sweet-smelling dust that instantly catches your attention as it's sprinkled over the area. Several people drop their weapons to stare in awe. Trolls just don't grow wings all the time, to be frank, and even you succumb to breathing in the fuzzy image of the Summoner as he flies, rather than paying attention to the threat at hand.

Someone tackles you from behind and you hit the ground hard. Cursing your stupidity, you struggle, only managing to wedge yourself deeper into the sand. The solid weight of someone's knee pressing into your back is horribly final. You smell the curve of their wickedly sharp blade---there's something familiar about that---and something else, too, but it's been so long since you've smelled that delicious scent. You must be imagining it. 

"Prepare to die, asshole," the troll growls. A male. That voice you recognize, too, and in a split second you realize who hovers over you and exactly what to do. With your face half-lodged in the sand, he doesn't know it's you, and you use that to your advantage.

In the blink of an eye, you've freed one hand and found your cane, swinging the heavy end at your captor's face. He grunts and topples over. You assume the stance that he's abandoned and push him face-down into the sand, one knee pinning him to the sand. The battle rages around you two.

You pause, and breathe in his candy red scent.

"So tell me, Karkles," you whisper, mouth inches from his face. "Should I kill you now? Or let you live?"

You have the satisfaction of watching him work it out, recognizing your voice and your weapon and your nickname for him. For once, Karkat Vantas has nothing to say.

"No one's watching," you go on, hearing the intense warfare going on all around. "If I let you go, no one would know."

"Terezi," he chokes, but he doesn't beg for his life. 

You flip him over and straddle his chest, making sure that he can see you. Your cane is poised over his blood pusher. "Just say the word, and I won't do it."

"Why?" His anger resurfaces. "Still playing your fucking mind games?"

You don't know what you're doing. As an Imperial Soldier, you are obligated to kill him. You could do it and you could probably enjoy it, too. But something stays your hand. Your free hand curls around the collar of the cloak he wears.

_"'Sometimes the law is not what is right, and sometimes what is right is not always lawful.'"_

You're still not entirely sure what these words mean, but you think they apply.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He tries to squirm away, to no avail.

"It doesn't matter, Karkat!" Now you're angry, too. "Tell me what to do! _Tell me!_ "

His face rearranges itself into a mask of surprise. He swallows. "Do it, then. Kill me."

For some weird reason, your eyes prick like they might tear up. You won't allow it. You raise the blade end of the cane and try to calm the tremors in your wrist, aiming for a quick, candy-red kill.

You can't do it.

You're saved from admitting that you can't do it, that you can't end the life of a lowblood, a mutant no less, one that would've killed you a few moments ago without a second thought. You're saved because in that moment a retreat is ordered; all around you teal bloods abandon combat and run. You don't understand what's happening. All you know is, you have one chance to kill him.

Instead, you lean down, lock him in a frustrated kiss, and punch him in the face.

Then you run.

~ATH

**Your name is EQUIUS ZAHHAK.**

**As an INDIGO BLOOD, you take great pride in your HIGH CASTE. In your opinion the HEMOSPECTRUM is a great thing that prevents MASS CHAOS. For this reason, you have mastered the BOW and joined the ranks of ARCHERADICATORS. You will fight for the Empress until all of the rebels are subdued. Maybe you shouldn't put so much blind faith in the Empire, but you have always liked to DO WHAT YOU'RE TOLD.**

**What will you do?**

According to Empirical law, everything you've done up to this point is legal and justified and even, dare you say it, encouraged.

But you do not feel like a law-abiding troll as you sink to your knees in the snow, staring in mild shock at your handiwork. The maroon puddle of blood slides ever closer to you. Your own arrow's shaft protrudes from Aradia Megido's rib cage, accusing and solid. You are horrified. You are confused. 

You don't know if she's dead or not, but that doesn't matter.

You're a monster.

Your bow is still clutched in your hand; disgusted, you fling it at a tree and snap it into pieces. Too distraught to care, your hands hover over her, uncertain. How odd that after a lifetime of feeling too strong you now feel powerless.

You can't wrap your head around the situation. How did it come to this? You remember, once upon a time, a very inopportune flush-crush that you could not escape from, despite the circumstances. One of blood as noble as yours could never have a future with a troll so low on the spectrum. Your enlistment in the military came as a blessing, distancing you from the source of your quadrant troubles. You've been so naive to believe that you would never see her again. Even more foolish of you to think you would never meet her on the battlefield. 

The sticky red blood reaches your knees. That's the line for you; you need to do something, need to make this right. You gingerly lift the limp body from the snow and begin to march away. The other archeradicators are regrouping by now, perhaps wondering where you are. You consider the excuses you will give when you return. If you return. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. Nothing makes sense at the moment.

The jungle is thinning, giving way to the first signs of urban life. You have a destination in mind. You know someone who operates nearby, someone who will hopefully be able to help. If there is help to be given, that is. You could be carrying a corpse for all you know. You can't bring yourself to check.

~ATH

**Your name is KANAYA MARYAM.**

**Because of your JADE GREEN BLOOD, you are technically a LOWBLOOD. However, your caste is very special, so the 47TH EMPIRICAL DECREE does not apply to you. This means that you are allowed to socialize with ANY CASTE without fear of CULLING. Fortunately for you, you are not forced by law to JOIN THE ARMY, and so you have become a FASHION DESIGNER. You are also a trained MEDISLAYER.**

**What will you do?**

You're just beginning to sew your latest commission when you hear someone approach the entrance of your shop. Reluctantly, you set your sewing machine aside and fold the silky blue fabric, careful not to tear the delicate dress. A blue blood had called to order the dress for some party or another; the fact that highbloods utilize their time not spent fighting by going to social events amazes you. Nevertheless, the blue blood will pay you better than most, so you've been hoping to finish the dress ahead of schedule. 

So much for that. You push aside the curtain that separates your private workspace from the rest of the shop, startled to find a pair of horribly familiar trolls in your way. 

"Oh, my." Equius Zahhak's hulking figure takes up a large square of the floor. His body mass is further expanded by the motionless troll in his arms, the motionless troll that happens to be dripping maroon blood all over your carpet.

"Please," he says, through strained vocal chords. "Help her."

You swallow, then gesture to the table next to you. "There."

He sweeps one muscular arm and sends the mannequins on display flying, clearing a space to set Aradia Megido down. You bite the inside of your cheek at the sheer quantity of blood. It covers both of them. As a trained medislayer, you don't hesitate for long, transitioning smoothly into action.

You first check to make sure that she is alive. You are doubtful.

The faintest pulse beats in her wrist. It's enough. You gently shoo Equius to the far wall and set to work, retrieving your kit from under the counter. You cut away the scraps of her shirt and wince at the damage. The arrow is still buried deep in her ribs, slick with blood and dusted with ice. You wrap one hand around it and brace the other against her shoulder. One firm yank and it's free, accompanied by a gush of fresh blood. You flinch again because there's something oddly appealing about that.

You press a rag to the wound, soaking up as much blood as you can. Holding the rag in place, you use your free hand to check her airways; miraculously, only a trickle of blood has bubbled up in her throat. You make sure she's breathing and wrap gauze around the wound. With so much blood lost, only a transfusion could possibly guarantee her survival; even then, it would be iffy. For now, at least, she's stabilized.

Now, to get down to more pressing matters.

"How did this happen?" You fix Equius, who is sweating profusely, with an icy stare.

He swallows audibly. "Your shop is exorbitantly close to a battlefield, Miss Maryam---"

"Perhaps I should rephrase that." You cross your arms. " _Who_ did this?"

He doesn't answer, but you already know exactly what happened. You can guess by the telltale arrow. 

"You don't understand," he chokes. "This wasn't supposed to happen---"

"Then why did it?"

His muscular frame is shaking. "I can't tell you. But please, believe me. I didn't want this."

"Why are you defending your choices?" you ask coolly. "You're a highblood. She's a lowblood. You did what was expected of you."

"What's expected isn't always what's right, Miss Maryam," he replies, and he looks broken.

~ATH

**Your name is TAVROS NITRAM.**  


**Because an UNFORTUNATE INCIDENT crippled you when you were FIVE, you are in a WHEELED DEVICE for and therefore slated for CULLING. Fortunately with the start of the WAR the HIGHBLOODS want to cull you for a different reason (your BROWN BLOOD, that is). So far you've survived by being the PERSONAL ASSISTANT (AKA SLAVE) of a highblood named E%ECUTOR DARKLEER.**

**What will you do?**

"Come here, boy," Darkleer commands, sitting back in his chair. He's finished his evening meal.

You hate when he calls you boy. You're not a boy, you're nine and a half sweeps! That's technically an almost-adult. Sometimes you want to just stick it to Darkleer, walk right up to him and give him a piece of your mind. Not that you ever will. You are somewhat gentle when it comes to trollkind. Okay, you're more than somewhat gentle. Some of your old friends would use something akin to "pansy" or "wimpy wimp wimp."

You wheel yourself over to Darkleer. You guess you shouldn't really complain about him, since he has allowed you to live this long. According to recent laws highbloods are permitted the right to kill lowbloods at any time. Scratch that, they are _obligated_ to kill them. Because you are a servant, Darkleer can choose whether or not to kill you at any time, so long as he doesn't set you free. Serve or die. You signed a contract with him at the war's start and are bound to fulfill this commitment. 

"Take these dishes, then come back here," he says tiredly. He's always tired these days. You know that he lost his moirail, an olive blood, to the Empirical decrees. The whole story is fuzzy but you understand that their moiraillegiance is probably gone forever and it affects him heavily.

Gathering the dishes onto your lap, you spin around and roll into the hygieneblock. You arrange the dishes in the sink to be washed later and return to Darkleer's side. He rubs his chin, apparently deep in thought, and glances at you.

"Follow me," he says, and stands abruptly, leaving you scrambling to push in his chair and wheel after him. He leads you to his workshop, towards the back of his monstrous hive. The wide, shadowy block is one of your least favorites. The half-finished skeletons of the E%ecutor's works hang eerily from the ceiling and litter the dusty floor. You follow him to the workbench that lines the back wall, watching with baited breath as he sits down on a stool and rests one arm on the bench, turning in place to look at you.

"I have a proposition." His deep voice rumbles through the air. "But first, a bit of background."

"Of course, sir."

He picks up the head of an arrow from the bench and twirls it in his hand. "As you know, I am the highest authority among the archeradicators. They answer to me alone. But I've been out of service for too long. I haven't killed since . . ." He trails off, scraping the arrowhead lightly on the metal bench. "No matter. I'll be returning to the field soon, and so you have two options, boy."

You feel a trace of panic in your gut.

"I leave without you. By law, this releases you my service. You will be culled."

You almost squeak.

"Or: I take you with me."

"T-take me with you, please," you half-whisper, terrified.

"There is a catch, however," he adds. "You won't be able to travel in your condition. The archeradicators and I will not be held back by a servant that can't navigate rough terrain."

You stare blankly as he continues. "If you wish to join me, you'll need these."

He moves aside and reveals a pair of metal legs, very anatomically correct legs that would fit your body exactly, now that you think about it.

"One surgery, that's all. I graft them on and you'll be walking in no time."

You swallow hard. Is it really a choice? You would have mobility back, and be rid of this dumb wheeled device forever. And you would get to live. But maybe you should just pick a quick, merciless culling. It would be easier. You could end everything and be off of this horrible, violent, bloody planet once and for all. 

God, you're so weak. 

Before you can shut yourself up (and you are sure this is Rufio talking), you say, "Okay. I'll go with you."

"Very well." 

Darkleer stands and moves to a dimmer area of the workshop. It's barely bright enough for you to see, but you can tell that you're in the far corner and there's a table with tough straps on it there. You realize a moment later what that's for.

"W-wait---"

Darkleer ignores you and lifts you from the chair, laying you none-too-gently on the table. He binds your wrists to the metal slab and tells you, "Don't worry. The operation should be painless. You have no feeling in your legs, after all."

You still don't see why he has to tie your arms down.

It's still too dark to see well. You're startled when a sudden blindingly white light flares on overhead, forcing you to turn your head away and squint. You flinch. Now, with this light, you notice a counter scattered with very sharp metal instruments. You nearly throw up.

Your head whips around when you see Darkleer has appeared again at your feet. A chainsaw is clutched in one hand, a pair of massive shears in the other. Your mouth goes dry.

"I was exaggerating. There may be some pain."

The chainsaw revs to life.

"Um, maybe I should get some, um, anesthetic, maybe?" you stutter, craning your neck to see what he's doing.

"Nonsense." He snips away at your pants, mercifully leaving your undershorts on. He pushes your shirt up slightly to see what he's doing properly. Suddenly, the revving chainsaw is inches from your skin.

You screw your eyes shut and try to think of what Rufio would do.


	5. Introductions, Part the Fifth

**Your name is ROSE LALONDE.**

**You changed it to Rose in favor of the GREAT HORRORTERRORS that are fabled to exist in the FURTHEST RING, whatever THAT is. Because you are a SEADWELLER no one seems to mind. The downside to being a seadweller is that you were FORCIBLY ENLISTED and immediately given a position of power. As the youngest LIEUTENANT in the Condesce's forces, you are expected to be close to PERFECT, but you're up to the challenge.**

**What will you do?**

Your brigade is camped on the outskirts of the sprawling slums. The buildings ahead alternate between stooping low to the ground and piercing the thick blanket of smog that hangs over the dilapidated city. It's all lowblood, of course. There's no touch of highblood in this urban maze. You'd been told that these lowbloods are hostile, and you believe it---even from this distance, crouched in the darkness with a pair of binoculars pressed to your eyes, you can see several armed trolls patrolling the sidewalks.

Quite a lot of weapons are out, actually.

Assumptions have been made about these slums. You've heard rumors that they're being trained from grubhood to fight, vicious trolls with nothing to lose. It would be suicide to barge into their territory with forty soldiers and no one to back you up. 

That doesn't mean you're not going to do exactly that, however.

"Arm yourselves," you call, standing as confidently as you can. The trolls in your brigade, all sprawled out in this patch of the ditch that rings the city, oblige without comment. They're good soldiers, you think, loyal to the last breath and ready to take on anything should you say the word. You don't want to see them fall, but as their lieutenant, you have to make tough decisions sometimes. Sometimes, you have to lose good fighters.

You discard the binoculars and stare out at the blinking lights of the slums. They're not far. A short trot across cracked asphalt and you'll be there, mixing in with the first buildings, until you're deep in enemy controlled surroundings. Statistically, this whole battle is stacked against you. But as you've previously mentioned, your hands are tied. These lowbloods have something that the Empress wants, and you will find it.

"Kill everything that moves, and burn anything you please," you say over your shoulder, climbing out of the ditch and leading the brigade into battle.

The element of surprise doesn't last; almost immediately, one of the crudely constructed guard towers that sticks out over the city sets off a flare, and activity is all around. You don't slow the charge. You hold your knitting needles in an iron grip and don't stop until you and your soldiers can move no farther: on two sides, buildings rise up like fences, and ahead, up the littered street, the first wave of lowblood rebels gathers, a solid wall of bodies that refuse to give an inch.

There is a period of silence. The two opposing forces appraise each other, gauge strengths and weaknesses. The rebels have no apparent leader, so you take the plunge. You speak only to your soldiers.

"You know what's expected of you."

It's as if someone has lit a match and tossed it on gasoline; trolls on both sides of the imaginary line roar and move in for the kill. You don't lead your own into battle this time around; you have a much more important task. Never mind why the Empress needs something from the dirtiest of lowblood slums around. It's important, and that's all you need to know.

You dodge the explosion range of a lobbed grenade, barely avoid being smashed to the pavement by crumbling concrete that rains down from a nearby building, and dart into a nearby alley. Squeezing down the narrow space, you emerge on the next street over and keep running. The noise of the battle never seems to fade entirely as you wind deeper into the city.

Sometimes you pass civilians, but they don't appear hostile; most shrink away or escape into their hives. Good. You have an address in mind, a landmark that you need to reach before it's too late, and confrontation would be detrimental to your objective. The sound of your boots on the gritty streets punctuates the occasional blasts from the fight. You feel a pang in your blood pusher because you know at least half of your trolls must be glued to the pavement with their own blood by now.

You wheel onto a wide street, wider and more kept than the others you've traversed thus far. You're close. You stop in the middle of the road to catch your breath, gills fanning, and stare up the seemingly endless street at the library. That's where you're going. The building surpasses the others around it in every aspect---size, architectural finesse, everything. Though it's still some ways off, its bright white exterior glows slightly in the moonlight. So close, yet so far away.

You nearly start towards it when your eyes fall on the legion of lowblood warriors that stand between you and the library, a great many of them indeed, filling up the broad road and standing in a loose formation that's several bodies thick. You know that you can't fight them all on your own. You also know that your soldiers would never reach you in time, if they're even alive at this point.

But you have a task. And failure is not an option. 

Your needles are suddenly feather-light in your hands. You take several measured steps toward the bristling fighters, all armed, all dangerous. You are outnumbered seventy-five to one. Regardless, you do not stop until a few short yards separate you from your imminent demise. You sink into a fighting stance. You leap into the fray.

It takes them about twenty-two seconds to bring you to the ground, but you accept defeat gracefully all the same.

Your cheek grinds into the dirty ground and a knee grinds into your back. The lowbloods part, piling up on the edges of the street to watch the show. In the sudden silence, you hear light footsteps coming towards you. It's a struggle, but you manage to bring your head up enough to see.

The troll that approaches is female, with hair wild enough and long enough to give the Condescension a run for her money. A tattered black dress with olive green accents hangs from her thin frame. She holds a leather-bound volume that's nearly as large as her torso. 

Your breath empties your body in utter defeat, because what you came for---what you are surely about to die for---is inches away and completely out of your reach. 

The troll stands above you with a look of disappointment on her pinched, almost feline features. "A valiant effort, seadweller. But futile all the same. To think, you nearly took my love's last words away from me." With that, she hugs the book to her chest. 

"Kill me if you please, just don't make me suffer through a speech." Your trademark sarcasm remains intact even now.

She considers this. "Tell me why, at least. Why does the Condescension want this? The Signless is dead."

At this, you laugh, a harsh sound in the quiet. "Do you honestly think anyone believes that anymore? You had her fooled for some time, even I will admit. But she found out. She knows he's alive---" You struggle for a moment, then go still once more. "---and she knows that the only way to find him is through his Disciple's records."

She frowns. "A pity. It seems I'll have to burn this, then."

You wince. 

"I'm sorry it has to end this way for you, seadweller," she tells you, and it's genuine. "But I won't pretend to have any authority over these trolls here. They're a wild bunch. If it helps . . ." She stops and addresses the eager crowd. "I know you'll kill her, but don't make it _too_ painful. She's only following orders."

The Disciple of the Signless is swallowed up by the trolls, and you become nothing more than a prize that's wanted desperately by more trolls than you'd care to count.

~ATH

**Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA.**

**You're somewhat of a PRINCE when it comes to the SUBJUGGLATORS. Ever since you turned seven you were taken in by your ANCESTOR, the GRAND HIGHBLOOD, who is a pretty cool motherfucker. He weened you off of SOPOR SLIME which was a bad thing for everyone in your vicinity at first, but now you're pretty good at keeping any MURDEROUS RAGES under control. Of course, if anything really SETS YOU OFF there's no hope, but so far it's been chill. You've been training to be the next leader of the CHURCH OF THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS and you are one of the best LAUGHSASSINS around.**

**What will you do, motherfucker?**

The Grand Highblood's church is way bigger than most people think, and even you get lost in it sometimes. But tonight is not one of those times. No, tonight you've got some important shit to attend to, and if everything goes your way, more than a few motherfuckers will be painting the walls of your respiteblock.

That's what ol' GHB does, anyway---splatter his walls with the blood of his victims. You dig it. It's the perfect way to show everyone that you're not to be fucked with. You won't take it. Will. Not. Take it. Not that you really need another reason to be feared, but fear is the best weapon, according to your flesh-and-blood guardian. He always tells you to strike with fear and then strike with fists, which is pretty stupid since you use clubs most of the time anyway.

You burst into the sanctuary, ignoring the general rule of "shut the fuck up when a service is going on" because at that moment a service is going on. The two sections of pews are filled with subjugglators in their full robes, listening to the High Priest drone on from the ancient texts. You don't have time for this shit. You stride to the center of the aisle and raise your voice, knowing that those in attendance are automatically on edge because of your status alone. Your smeared face paint helps your cause.

"Listen up." Your volume is as erratic as ever. "I'VE GOT A MOTHERFUCKING PROBLEM. You bulge-suckers got an ear to lend? Fucking fantastic!"

The High Priest falls silent. In fact, everyone is silent. You continue speaking. "See, there's this bitchin' awesome rumor spreading from mouth to mouth like a fucking PARASITE, and I want to know exactly what the _fuck_ is going on before I get my kill on, GET IT?"

More silence. "Don't want to fucking TALK? BUT YOU'RE SO DAMN GOOD AT IT! Come on, gab with me! I don't BITE."

At this moment, heavy footfalls reach you from the corridor outside. You know who's going to walk in before it happens. The Grand Highblood enters with such force that the door hangs crookedly in it frame. The troll is a monster, not quite doubling you in height but not too far from it, either. You're not the lanky troll you used to be, and have put on some muscle in recent sweeps, but you're still a fucking twig next to the barrel-chested purple blood. And man, does he look pissed.

"YOU." His voice is loud, gunshots loud, cannons loud. You resist the urge to rub your auricular sponge clots. "WHO THE _FUCK_ DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, DISRUPTING THIS MOST _SACRED_ AND _REVERED_ OF BLESSED SACRAMENTS?"

His voice drops to barely above a whisper, and that's when you start to get way freaked out, because the only time the GHB is scarier than when he's shouting is when he's quiet. You swallow. He continues. _"Go to your block, you little shit. We need to have a chat."_

You're glad that the makeup conceals your burning cheeks as, humiliated, you kick the abused door right out of its frame and storm through the halls, up to your respiteblock. Your clubs somehow make their way into your hands and you smash everything that you can, everything that will make a satisfying noise. You hit your block and scream profanities at the rainbow-painted walls. 

You don't know why you get like this sometimes, but you do. You get these weird, intense rages that you can only be calmed down from through the Grand Highblood's special methods. Speaking of that nookwhiffer:

He shows up within minutes and before you can react, before you can even bring the clubs up in defense, he slaps one oversized hand at your cheek. _Crack._ You spin one hundred and eighty degrees and fall on your knees. Aw, shit. He's behind you. Not good. You try to scramble up, but he's already there, his foot crashing down on your back. You can't breathe. For a second, you think he's going to kill you, but the pressure disappears and you suck in huge breaths. Hopefully he's had enough for today? Yeah right.

He gets you by the back of the collar and throws you effortlessly at the wall, and you swear to the Mirthful motherfucking Messiahs that your bones snap. You kneel again, clutching your chest, and almost expect his knee when it smashes into your face. Nose and mouth now bloodied, you collapse sideways. You don't beg for mercy. You don't fight back. That kind of stuff never helps.

 _"You---little---mother---fucker,"_ he spits, accenting every word with a kick to your stomach. _"Disrespecting---my---CHURCH?"_

Finally, it's over. You know because he grabs you by the scruff of your neck, probably bruising the spine, and drags you to your recuperacoon. He dunks your head into the slime and you try to struggle, holding your breath, but you have to give in eventually and gulp in a mouthful of sopor. Coughing, sputtering, you're pulled from the muck and thrown in a heap to the floor. He stands over you, now assured that the sopor has calmed you down enough for him to speak. And it has. Your head is clear. Or, rather, fogged up.

"Let's have a little chat, eh?" When you're alone is the only time his voice is even close to normal, not a deadly whisper of a deafening roar. A little of both, actually. "What bullshit did you get in that STUPID GODDAMN HEAD OF YOURS that made you fuck up a service?"

You stare up at him defiantly. "You're fucking leaving, that's what. I know. You're leaving with your _goddamn_ subjugglators to go kill some lowblood SWINE and you're going to LEAVE me here. That's it, right?"

He laughs so loudly that you _do_ clap your hands over your ears, wincing. "You dumb fucker. I should kick the SHIT out of you again for that. I am leaving, little one, and I'm taking you with me!"

He keeps laughing, and you feel relief course through you. This is better than you could have hoped for. You'd feared that he would leave you in charge of a boring-ass church until you rot away into a skeleton, all bones and no thought and just _wrong_. Hearing that you're getting out there and going to get your claws into some motherfuckers is worth the beating you just took.

"ENOUGH TALKING." He's done with his moment of mirth and back to business. "Get dressed, grub. WE LEAVE SOON."

He stomps away, and you're left alone, coughing up purple rivulets. 

You drag yourself to your feet and don't even clean your wounds, 'cause that's life, right? Just get on with shit, blow it off and keep going. You dig around in your horn pile and find your battle-gear. The uniform of a laughsassin consists of clothes that allow for silence and agility: a hooded robe that reaches mid-calf in the back and the tops of your thighs in the front, trousers tucked into soft, quiet shoes, and a balaclava beneath the hood. All of it is purple.

You dress in minutes and set off to find the Highblood. He's most likely getting together some laughsassins and subjugglators to really get this party started, so you head for the section of the church where the other motherfuckers up and sleep. Sure enough, he's already on his way out, a battalion of purple bloods in his wake. You walk right the fuck up to him because that's your descendant-privilege.

He addresses the clown trolls. "The second the Empress says the fucking word, WE'RE GETTING OUT OF HERE. The BLOOD will run in the FUCKING STREETS just like the Messiahs always predicted. AND THE SUBJUGGLATORS WILL BE THE KNIFE THAT SPILLS IT!"

Honks and cheers and chants from the crowd. Someone throws confetti. You stand silent, but beneath your balaclava your face is split in a wicked grin. The Grand Highblood turns away, apparently live-chatting with someone over his palmtop. You catch sight of tyrian-purple text on the screen. 

"We were gonna wait for my present," he yells over the noise of the others, "but apparently the little BITCH is out of the way. YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, MOTHERFUCKERS?"

You do.

"Tonight we get to KILL."

It's fun, being part of an insane cult. It's fun, and no one understands.

~ATH

**Your name is VRISKA SERKET.**

**Growing up with a BLOODTHIRSTY SPIDER LUSUS wasn't exactly a nurturing environment for a growing troll, so you can be a little ROUGH AROUND THE EDGES. Okay, let's all be honest here. A little BITCHY. But them's the 8r8ks, right? You have this thing about being the BEST at EVERYTHING and sometimes that gets in the way of your JUDGEMENT. In any case, you're still determined to be the best GAMBLIGNANT ever. Or at least, you WERE determined, until that hope was blown out of the water. LITERALLY.**

**What will you do?**

You thrash. You struggle.

For the first time in your life, you feel totally, completely powerless.

The ocean doesn't care about your perfect FLARPing records and hundreds of murders. It only cares about tossing you from current to current like a leaf in the wind or some equally pansy-esque bullshit. Doesn't matter. All you know is you just jumped from the deck of a pirate ship to the tumultuous waters below, and you are probably about to drown. You open your eyes. The saltwater stings, and without your glasses, it's impossible to see much but murky water and flakes of wood and chips of metal.

The sound of the battle overhead is muffled by the water, but you can still feel it in your bones when yet another missile hits its target. God, how did this even happen? You'll have to worry about it later. You follow your instincts, pick what you hope is the way to the surface, and kick wildly, making headway. It's a beautiful thing when you break the surface and suck in so much air your chest feels over-inflated. You're blissful, even in the midst of the burning fleet and screaming missiles, until you realize something's not right.

John.

You dive back under the water without a second thought, chest now burning for a different reason: fear. You'll never find him. It's too dark, there are too many bodies floating here, it's hopeless. . . . 

And there he is, barely moving but probably alive. You jackknife to where he is, hook your hand under his coat's collar, and tug him back to the surface, whether he's breathing or not. The crippling fear that you've lost him forever lessens slightly. He stirs when you haul him up and air hits you two, but doesn't wake up much more. Great. Big help, John. Awesome.

The fact that ships are still bursting into flames left and right doesn't make things easier, but you struggle with John's limp form and climb onto a wide wooden platform that floats invitingly in the center of the chaos. Once you're both out of the water, you check on him. Water spurts from his lips in rivulets. You push on his chest cavity; more water. With a great, heaving cough, his breathing levels out a bit more, but his eyes are still firmly closed and his skin is cold as ice.

The best you can do is try and share as much body heat as possible (since you're not exactly warm, either) and try not to scream when the ships closest to you go down in flames. All of them are destroyed. All of them.

It doesn't make any sense. How had lowbloods found a way to decimate the most ruthless fighters on Alternia? For all of your life you've always put so much faith in the highbloods, and especially the Gamblignants. You can't even begin to fathom the circumstances surrounding all of this. It's easier to lie back on the damp wooden planks and stare at the sky, and try to block out the flames that flicker in the edges of your vision, the screams that claw into your ears, the ash that's thick on your tongue and fluttering in your lungs.

Somehow, amidst all of this, you fall asleep.

You guess you've always found solace in anarchy.

~ATH

You're awoken by cruel reality: the sun will be rising soon and you will die.

You sit up. The board bobs gently. Everything is still now, still and quiet and gentle, and the ash is no longer a nuisance but a friendly tickle on your cheeks. John isn't moving, but his chest rises and falls evenly. You force yourself to look around.

The ships that are still visible are only skeletal wooden frames, blackened by flames and missing chunks. Most of the fleet has succumbed to the ocean by now. You imagine that if you were to stick your head beneath the waves, you would see a graveyard of vessels waving back at you. 

Next to hit you is the smell.

It's foul, a rotten smell, but the worst thing about it is that it's so familiar. You've had this stench coating your hive for sweeps. It's the smell of death. The smell of soulless bodies and lifeless trolls. Of Spidermom. You peel your eyes from the wreckage and scan the water, feeling bile in your throat. The corpses in various stages of completeness that float half-submerged are enough to drag your eyes to the only part of the horror scene that's not a grisly reminder of lives lost. The sole surviving vessel.

Minfang's ship.

It has taken its fair share of hits. The hull is smoking, great black plumes of smoke that half-hide the beaten ship. But it still sails. Slowly, almost mournfully, it cuts through the carnage-filled water, ever closer to you.

You're still curled on your side. John is motionless. The ship will think you're just another pair of corpses, dead in the water. You dredge up your pitifully unimpressive remaining strength and sit up. The motion alone is like breaking your own spine, but you still drag yourself to your knees and wave one arm. It's the most you can do. The ship draws even closer. 

For a moment you fear that Mindfang's remaining crew has overlooked you, but the silver gleam of their anchor plummeting to the waves is visible. You almost collapse with relief. A pirate swings down the anchor's rope, dives into the water, and approaches your sad little floating platform. You imagine what you look like to him---bloodied, bruised, and desperately clutching an apparently dead troll. Yes, you're a sorry sight indeed.

The pirate is muscular enough to throw John over one shoulder and you over the other. You do your best not to throw up or something equally mortifying, especially when the pirate struggles up the side of the ship and the bobbing motion is incredibly upsetting to your shell-shocked stomach. You gasp gratefully when the pirate drops you two on the blackened deck and moves out of sight. Numb from cold, you grab John's sleeve protectively. You realize that you're both shivering violently.

You turn your head to the side and see that most of Mindfang's crew is alive and milling around, some nursing injuries, others swearing bitterly. They don't seem very interested in you. After a scan of the deck, you conclude that you and John are the only trolls to have been fished from the water. You're not sure how you feel about that.

The _click, click_ of heeled boots on wooden deck ceases all conversation. Uncomprehending, you crane your neck to see the new arrival and despite your tiredness, your battle-worn body, you feel flickers of excitement in your chest. You hero is passing inches from you. And you're laying like a useless grub on the floor. Ugh.

Marquise Spinneret Mindfang doesn't glance at you as she goes. You stare as she walks away. She looks exactly like the photos of her that you see on wanted posters and news broadcasts, right down to the black-and-blue coat and bright red boots. You can't believe your eyes. She pulls her first mate aside and speaks quietly to him, though you can strain and hear them.

"How many did you pull from the water?" she inquires, eyes shifting across the deck. 

The first mate points at you and John. "Just two, Marquise. Only live ones we could find."

"Very well." Her fangs are visible even when her mouth closes tightly. "Have them cleaned up and bring them to my quarters."

You simply can't believe it.

Mindfang is gone, but the surprisingly gentle hands of a pair of female Gamblignants lift you and John. The light fog disappears. It takes you a while to notice that you're being carried below deck, down several corridors and into what looks like an infirmary. You find yourself dropped a tad roughly on a very cold table. The shivering intensifies.

The female pirate leans over you. She doesn't really look like a pirate, not with her thin, elf-like features and fair teal eyes. You wonder why she chose this life. You wonder why _you_ did. 

"Can you hear me?" she asks. 

You nod weakly. Her warm hand tests the coolness of your skin, which feels like snow to you. You bat her hands away and sit up, unbuttoning your water-heavy coat and shucking it off and tossing it out of sight. The smaller buttons on your shirt are even harder to get at. When she decides that you can handle things from here, she leaves a blanket on the table and goes to help the other pirate with John, who needs more immediate care than you. You can't see what they're doing from here.

Wet clothes off entirely, you wrap yourself if the scratchy but considerably warm blanket. One of the pirates, who has stepped out, returns with a change of clothes for you. The shirt is a smidgen too big and the pants a bit too long, but you're not complaining. As you're stepping back into your boots (which, you will now note for the reader's benefit, are entirely too black and not nearly enough red) the door to the infirmary opens and the first mate appears.

"I'll be taking these two," he says with the authority of someone who knows he has it. 

One of the females quirks an eyebrow. "You can take the girl, but this one isn't fit to wake up yet, let alone walk. He looks young, too. Probably wouldn't survive a meeting with the Marquise so soon."

These are not comforting words for you. The first mate sighs and compromises. "Fine. I'll only take her. Send the little bastard up when you're done, will you?"

You want to kick him for saying that---you're the only one who can call John names---but the others have already agreed and you're forced to follow the first mate out into the corridor, back onto the deck, and then into the captain's quarters that rise up at the stern. He knocks lightly. A sultry voice calls, "Come in." The first mate opens the door for you, but doesn't stay. He shuts the door behind you.

A feeling of intense nervousness flares up in you.

Mindfang's quarters are very dimly lit, save for a modest fire to the right and a lamp nailed to her desk. The block is filled everywhere you look with treasures, from furniture to jewelry. You can't help but remember your FLARPing days. Mindfang herself is seated behind her desk, writing in a journal in cobalt blue ink. She doesn't move her eyes when she tells you to take a seat.

You do, woodenly.

"Don't be nervous, little one," she says, with the hint of a smirk.

_How the hell do you know I'm nervous????????_

"You're not the only one who can touch minds." Her voice is definitely smug when she answers your thought. You try to get a read on _her_ mind, but it's like trying to pull apart a brick wall with your bare hands. "Nice try. The effort is quite admirable."

Silence falls as her quill scratches across the journal's pages. You don't know if you should break it or sit in absolute stillness, so you choose the latter of the two and watch Mindfang's eight pupils flick left and right. Just like your own.

She notices you staring, and for the first time, meets your eyes directly. It's almost like looking in a mirror, only her features are more adult and she's still a lot bigger than you. A vision of the future. Her gloved hand taps the side of her jaw thoughtfully. 

"Tell me," she murmurs, "about your lusus?"

You don't know why she wants to know about Spidermom, but this is Marquise Spinneret Mindfang and you're not about to ask questions. "A spider lusus."

"And its diet?"

"Trolls," you reply, a little bitterly.

She smirks again. "Ah, yes. I remember I spent much of my youth securing my lusus's meals. It was a spider, of course. Same as yours. I wonder . . . how old are you, dear?"

She's very doting, for a ruthless lady pirate. "Nine and a half."

"Hm." She seems to be calculating. "Perhaps . . . I set my lusus free to take on another grub earlier than most trolls. Never mind. Perhaps they're one and the same." She shrugs.

"Did your lusus have big scratches on its left pincer?" You find yourself grinning.

"Exactly," is her response, coupled with a matching smile. "So, little Spiderling, it's about time we get down to more important matters."

You suddenly remember that the whole fleet is destroyed and that there's only one ship left, which you are on. The thing about Mindfang is that she is so captivating---you don't know if that's her psychic power at work or if she's made charm her business, but it's hard to focus on things outside of this block. "Right. Okay."

Ugh. You mentally kick yourself. This is your _life's role model_ and you just said "Okay."

She sits back, head tilted forward so that the brim of her hat covers her eyes. This worries you for some reason. "I must say that I am impressed. I'm well aware that those raised by lusii like ours are stronger than most, but your persistent survival is quite noteworthy. How did you manage it, when the rest of the fleet burned or drowned?"

The question makes you uncomfortable. "I jumped off the ship. Oh, and I took John with me."

"Well done," she praises. You glow with pride. "Quick thinking. I value that in my crew. Therefore, I am giving you a promotion."

You almost do something really inappropriate out of utter surprise and more than a little pride. Fortunately, you are a very composed troll, and keep a blank expression. She chuckles.

"Your carefully contained emotions are very refreshing," she notes, and you give yourself another mental kick. Of course she knows. " _Admiral_ Serket." 

"Admiral, huh?" You allow yourself your own smirk. You can't help being a little smug, since you're pretty sure "Admiral" is one of the highest ranks in the Imperial Armada. "I like it."

"However." 

Ah, yes. The inevitable catch.

"Rank always comes with a price," she adds. "God knows that I have paid enough for all of this."

You're not sure what she means by this.

"And you, my Spiderling, will pay your dues as well," she promises. "Sooner rather than later, now that I think on it. By becoming Admiral you are liable to meet with the Empress regarding matters of war in my place."

You feel a spike of fear at the thought of the Condesce's flagship, the one that crisscrosses the globe day and night, and having to see the Imperious Condescension on a regular basis. She's not exactly the most friendly of trolls. And of course, you can't help but ponder as to why the Marquise wants to desperately avoid the Empress. 

"It's nothing to concern yourself with," she says, answering your thoughts again. "I have much work ahead of me if I wish to regain my former assets. I'll need someone I can trust to shoulder some of it."

That's enough convincing for you. Deep down you know she's appealing to your super ego, but you still nod in agreement. Mindfang adds, "The Empress wishes for conference in two nights. You can take the boy with you, if you so wish."

You guiltily realize that you haven't thought about John much at all. "That's probably best, yeah."

"Very well," Mindfang sighs. "I believe that's about it. Actually: I have one more inquiry, Spiderling. Do you have it? The vision eightfold?"

You nod, pushing your hair away from your left eye and revealing the seven pupils. She smiles. "Of course you do." 

You want to ask if she thinks it's possible---your insane theory that she's your direct ancestor, the main donor of your DNA. It would explain the countless similarities between the two of you, and the fact that you shared a lusus. You hold your tongue, but of course she reads your mind as easily as she would read her own ship's logs.

"Ancestry? Between you and I? It's possible." She sits back and scrutinizes you closely. "I have always wanted an heir."

You're quite sure that this is the best night of your entire life.

"An enthusiastic little spider, aren't you? Go check on your moirail. If my mind's eye doesn't lie," she says thoughtfully, "he's just beginning to wake up."

"Of course. Good morning, Marquise."

"Good morning, Admiral. Sweet dreams."

You leave the block in a state of surreal contentedness, winding back to the infirmary with a dazed grin. The two pirates have left John on the table, dressed in borrowed clothes, not cold enough to come down with anything but still shivering every so often as he breaks from sleep. He stirs and blinks at you behind square lenses. 

"Come on, toughen up," you urge, in your special way. You don't treat John with kiddy-gloves. As blue bloods, the two of you have been doted on your whole lives. It made him a little soft around the edges. You, on the other hand, were forced to grow up under extenuating circumstances.

He smiles, even though he looks like shit, and sits up slowly. "How long was I out?" 

"Pretty much all night. Real alert there, Egbert."

He just grins and shrugs, gathering the blanket tighter around himself. "Where've you been?"

"Talking to Mindfang," you reply loftily, a feeling of great self-importance taking over.

His eyes widen to the size of cue balls. "Wow. How did that go?"

"Sit down, Johnny boy, and let me tell you a story. . . ."

"I'm already sitting."

"Technicalities!"

~ATH

**Your name is JADE HARLEY.**

**Because you are a LIME BLOOD and should be EXTINCT, you're not exactly normal. You live on a small deserted island with your LUSUS, BEC. You have spent your youth watching the PROPHECIES IN YOUR DREAMS that apparently no one else can see. You have some INTERNET FRIENDS, but you've never met them or anyone else for that matter. One day you're going to SAVE THE WORLD, or at least, you and your friends will.**

**What will you do?**

You're walking along the beach on the northern end of your island, Bec trotting along beside you, when you get tired.

Oh, darn it all. Sudden exhaustion is a sure sign that you're about to collapse into a deep sleep, and deep sleep is when you see things. For as long as you can remember you've been granted visions of things to come every time you sleep. They used to be kind, happy dreams. Now you only see death. Death and blood and fire and brimstone.

Bec notices and sits back on his haunches, watching with slight disinterest as you gracelessly tumble to the sand and lie there, plummeting into sleep instantly.

In the dream you are floating above a city. Though you have never been here, you recognize it by name, in the way that dreams work. It's the largest and most prosperous city on Alternia. It is the Capital City. Its skyscrapers, so high that they're close to the low-hanging clouds, are nearly eye-level with you. You look down; you have no body. So you turn your eyes to the city.

You regret it.

The Capital City is not on fire, though explosions mushroom up towards you every so often. Rather than flames there is blood. Too much blood. It's everywhere, splattered on the streets and painted on the walls. It runs in the gutters. It arcs through the air. And the most horrifying part is that the rainbow of colors---red and yellow and green and blue and purple and all the others---is beautiful, and it makes you wonder if maybe your species is better off in pieces.

You force yourself to look for the cause. This is a vision of a preventable future, but you can only stop this bloodbath if you figure out the circumstance. You search for bodies, but somehow, inexplicably, there are no cadavers scattered about, nothing, not even parts. You don't understand.

And then you see it, the reason why the corpses are not where they should be. You hover closer and see a great square in the center of the city, once a market place. Now you see the mountain of dead trolls piled in the square. Who else sits there but the Condescension herself, perched on the spoils of her war, trident in hand. The head of the Signless is speared on the golden weapon. 

The dream ends.

You're shoved back into the waking world with a shuddering gasp. You feel like you'll vomit for a moment, but it passes and you take deep breaths as Bec nuzzles his nose against your shoulder. You pat his head, too shaken to even offer a measly "Good barkbeast, best friend." He seems to understand.

The horrifying dream now behind you, but still hovering in your subconscious, you sit up and dust yourself off. Like a sensible person you keep five computers on you at all times and so you retrieve one of these and open Trollian. 

You had wanted to wait a little longer before taking action, but the dream has forced your hand. You've been cozy on this island for too long. It's about time you set your plans in motion, and the first step is to gather intelligence. You have just the friend to help you with this, and look at that! He's online right now. You double-click on the trolltag twinArmageddons.

It's going to be a long night.


	6. "Do Not Weep, Maiden, for War is Kind." - Troll Stephen Crane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting pesterlogs? More like bash my head in with a club.
> 
> In other news: reviewer of the week award goes to BatchSan for being amazing and whatnot.

Your name is KANAYA MARYAM.

A young teal blood arrives with the mail early that evening. Most of it is the usual propaganda, straight from the Condesce's mouth, announcing highbloods to be the superior race and lowbloods the "lesser beings." You shake your head and toss the fliers into the garbage. What remains is a stark white envelope, made from an expensive material, that is stenciled in plain black ink. Oh, dear. Black ink is only used in matters of great importance. You take the envelope to your apartment upstairs, leaving the blinds down and the closed sign on the door. 

You duck your head into the guest block and make sure that Aradia is alright. She's asleep, as she has been for several nights, so you head into the nutritionblock and cut the envelope open with a butter knife. A heavy piece of parchment slides out and eyes you warily from the striped table cloth. You unfold it and scan your eyes down the document, increasingly displeased as you read.

>   
>  Kanaya Maryam  
>  Caste: Jade Green  
>  Affiliation: (?)
> 
> Greetings.
> 
> According to recent Imperial Law, it is now illegal for those of your caste (read: jade) to remain neutral in this great and terrible war. Immediately send your reply. If you choose to support the superior race, your life will be spared. If you choose to be affiliated with lowblood swine you will be culled. Please do not attempt to escape this royal obligation. Failure to comply will be met with culling.  
> 

You set the letter down with shaking hands. You've feared this moment for some time. Remaining coolly undecided has been your savior during this war, your cowardly salvation. It's easier to be neutral. It's easier than trying to decide who is right and who is wrong, because you yourself can't figure it out. You know that if you approached any lowblood and posed the question their reply would be something along the lines of, "We are the oppressed, and we fight for our rights." Similarly, any highblood would say, "We are defending ourselves and the law." Because, truthfully, the lowbloods are breaking the law. But what makes the _law_ right?

You have pondered this question for some time.

The sound of footsteps saves you from your thoughts. Guiltily, you shove your letter underneath a magazine and stand. Aradia blinks in surprise at you. "Kanaya? What am I doing here?"

Her voice sounds like it's a thousand miles away. Slightly unnerved by the blank expression on her face, you take her arm and guide her to a chair. You sit down across from her. Her rust-red eyes stare vacantly at the table, and you are unsure if she can hear you as you answer, "My hive. You're recovering."

"From what?" Her hand rubs lightly where the bandages are through the fabric of her shirt.

You pause, tongue trapped between your fangs. How should you answer? Defend Equius, who you owe nothing? Or tell the truth? You work to keep your face nonchalant as you say, "You were attacked by archeradicators. I found you very close to death several nights ago."

Can she see through the lie? Her expression betrays nothing. 

"Do you know who did it?"

You are very close to saying that no, you do not know who, but instead, words you don't mean spill out and collect on the tabletop, congealed and syrupy. "Equius. Equius Zahhak."

"What." It's not a question, and the first traces of emotion play on her features. Anger. 

"He brought you to me," you tack on, hurriedly. "He begged me to help you. He didn't want you to die."

"Then why," she begins, voice gathering color, "did he try to kill me in the first place?"

You remain silent. Equius had been very flustered, unable to explain anything, almost incoherent with some emotion---grief? Regret? Before you can speak, Aradia poses another question. "Where is he? I want to have a word with him."

"He left. Once I had assured him that you would live, he took off. He said that the other soldiers would look for him, and that it wouldn't do well for either of us if he was found here."

"Coward," she spits. Instead of joining the soup of conversation on the tabletop, the derogative word gains altitude like a hot air balloon and hangs between you two. 

"No," you disagree. "A coward would have left you to die."

"A troll with an ounce of bravery would have stood by his decision and his orders. He did neither."

She stands abruptly, moving awkwardly under the influence of her injuries, one arm wrapped loosely around her torso. You follow her into the hall and the guest block. "Where are you going?"

"I am going to find him." She begins to change out of the borrowed sleepwear and into her clothes, which you took the time to repair for her.

"Absolutely not." You cross your arms tightly. "It would be suicide. This is a predominately highblood town, not even taking into account your chest wounds."

"I'll be fine," she insists, words clipped with ire. "I have to do this, Kanaya."

"Do _what_?"

"Kill him." The words seem to come as a surprise to both of you. She pauses halfway through lacing her boot at the gravity of this statement, then continues, a determined look on her face. "I am going to kill Equius Zahhak."

"You can't do that," you blurt. "It's illegal. He's a highblood."

"I have killed more highbloods than you'd think, Kanaya. Don't try to stop me."

"You'll die," you say, with absolute certainty. "You won't last five minutes out there in that state."

Now fully dressed, Aradia slips past you and downstairs, into the shop. You follow closely, still attempting to discourage her. "I see troops marching past my shop more and more often. They'll kill you without a thought."

"They won't see me." Her whip flashes into her hand. She wraps it around her forearm and peeks through the blinds, out onto the streets. It's still early, but you don't need to look out to know that soldiers are already on patrol. The thump of boots on pavement beats a steady rhythm through the shop.

"Suicide," you repeat, exasperated. 

The sound of synchronized footsteps fades. She opens the door a crack, and you realize that if anyone sees her leaving, _you_ will be in very hot water. You beckon her into your work room and open the back door for her in defeat. Behind the shop lies the fringe of the jungle where she almost died. 

"Go through the trees," you advise. "After the battle the highbloods won't expect any lowbloods to be there so soon."

She stops on the threshold, eyes fixed on the ten feet of grass between the door and the treeline. A short sprint for someone in good physical condition. A struggle for someone suffering near-fatal wounds. She pauses to thank you, and then flits across the grass as fast as she can manage in her wounded state, leaving you alone once more.

You shut the door quietly and trudge back to the nutritionblock, exhausted by the encounter. The letter still lies on the table. You flip it over and see a space for your reply. You hover with your quill over the parchment, the tip stained with jade green ink. You have a choice to make.

You set the quill down and decide that you can remain neutral for a few more short, blissful moments.

~ATH

Your name is SOLLUX CAPTOR.

Trollian flashes across your screen. You jump to reply, praying that it's Eridan for once in your life, only to find that the trolltag isn't violet purple, but lime green. You sigh---Eridan and Feferi have yet to contact you with news of their escape, if it even happened, and you're worried---and answer the troll.

**gardenGnostic [GG] began trolling  twinArmageddons [TA]**  
GG: sollux  
TA: gg.  
TA: 2omethiing'2 wrong?  
GG: howd you know?  
TA: no emotiicon or exclamatiion poiint? come on.  
TA: what'2 up?  
GG: its time  
GG: the plan needs to go into action right now!  
TA: you mean the plan you refu2e two dii2cu22 wiith me?  
GG: yes  
GG: forget whatever youre doing right now and help me  
TA: that'2 a tall order.  
TA: but ii'll biite.   
TA: what do you need?  
GG: i need something really important  
GG: its a computer chip  
TA: okay. and where would one fiind thii2 chiip?  
GG: thats where it gets complicated  
GG: this chip has an override that is imperative to the plan  
GG: without it there is no hope!  
GG: the problem is the condesce keeps it on her flagship  
TA: ii wa2 afraiid you would 2ay that.  
TA: ii'm on the moon riight now, what do you expect me two do?  
TA: that felt riidiiculou2 two type, wow.  
GG: do you have any information on the flagship?  
GG: floor plans, guard schedules, anything helpful?  
TA: 2ure. hold on whiile ii 2end.  
 **twinArmageddons [TA] sent file "flag2hiip.doc" to  gardenGnostic [GG]**  
TA: everythiing you wanted and more.  
TA: but ii have two a2k.  
TA: you don't actually plan on, you know, breachiing the 2hiip, riight?  
TA: you would diie. iit'2 iineviitable.  
GG: thanks for being concerned!  
GG: but dont worry, i have this covered  
GG: kind of  
GG: theres one more thing though  
TA: 2hoot.  
GG: i need someone to come with me  
GG: i know thats really terrible of me to ask someone to risk their life :(  
GG: but i cant do it alone  
GG: do you know any other spies who could do it?  
TA: maybee one.  
TA: you remember aa?  
GG: aradia?  
GG: have you spoken to her recently?  
TA: no.  
TA: ii thiink 2he'2 fiightiing.  
TA: but iif ii a2k her 2he miight go wiith you.  
TA: iit would help two have an experiienced soldiier wiith you.  
GG: okay  
GG: thank you for all your help!  
GG: please tell me what she says about this offer!!!  
GG: theres a lot to do  
GG: bye!  
TA: 2ee you.  
 **gardenGnostic [GG] ceased trolling  twinArmageddons [TA]**

You sigh and search for Aradia's trolltag on your chumproll. You're starting to really, really hate this stupid chat client.

~ATH

Your name is DAVE STRIDER.

Sometimes, you move the heavy old wardrobe in your respiteblock a few feet to the left, pry apart the loose boards there, drag down the paint-stained rag and look out at the sky.

You don't do it a lot. The Signless hates the thought of anyone seeing you two, and likes that the other residents of this shanty desert town assume your hive is abandoned. But you can't help it. Being cooped up in here for nine and a half sweeps has left you thirsting for something that isn't the walls of your block. You'll say it---the night sky is beautiful.

And no, you're not getting all poetic and shit. But it's true. There's this vast openness in the sky that you can't have, so you sit by the window like a chump and watch it.

Tonight, on a whim, you do just that. The Signless is locked up in his block. You can get away with it. Shutting the door tightly, you ram your shoulder into the side of the wardrobe a few times, until it's out of the way of the boarded-up window. The nails are loose enough to secure the planks of wood to the wall but still allow you to rip them out of the way. The last obstruction is an old greyish cloth that you cast aside, revealing the well-hidden window.

You rub dust from the glass and take in the view.

Something is very, very wrong.

The sky is not its usual blue-black, and you can't see the stars---there's just smoke and an awful red tinge that makes you think of your recently-filled-in irises. You press your ear to the glass, and you can hear it---the deafening booms of explosions in the distance. The village (or at least, the chunk of it that's in your line of sight) is still dormant, but the quiet doesn't last long. Trolls emerge from their hives in a frenzied panic and flee.

If they're running, then that means one thing: Something is coming this way. Something bad.

You throw open the door and make it to the Signless's door in two seconds flat. You hesitate, since you've never been inside before, then ignore the uneasy feeling and barge in. The Signless looks up from his computer, confused. Not mad. He never gets mad. Ever. Just confused. "Dave?"

"There's something going on outside---"

Before you can finish your breathless warning, the front door slams open. You whirl around and watch as a tall figure appears at the end of the hallway. For a minute, you think it's the Ψiioniic, but then the figure steps under the hallway light and your stomach drops out through your shoes. The highblood soldier isn't just any soldier---his purple-polka-dot pants scream "subjugglator" and his makeup is a dead giveaway. 

He grins wildly when he sees you, then turns his head and roars to someone in the other block, "I FOUND THE LITTLE FUCKER! HE'S OVER HERE---"

He doesn't finish, because you've already grabbed the club out of his hand and smashed it down over his unruly hair. He snarls some more swears and shoves you against the wall; you practically ricochet back at him and swing your fist at his jaw. He spins. You kick him hard, on the base of the spine, and keep kicking until he doesn't squirm anymore. The face-down subjugglator is still breathing, which means he'll be up soon. You don't want to stick around to find out.

You wheel into the Signless's block and find him typing furiously. "Hey, this really isn't a good time for social justice blogging, you know."

He blinks at you, then slams the husktop shut. "We need to leave. The Ψiioniic was right, I don't have the time."

"Alright, there are more clowns out there---"

"Dave, wait." He looks at you with a steely seriousness and hands you the computer. "Take this. If anything goes wrong---I get captured, or we have to separate---make sure this isn't seen by anyone but the Ψiioniic, the Summoner, or the Disciple. I can't stress this enough."

"Whoa, man---" You can't protest. You captchalogue his husktop and draw one of your shitty swords from your strife deck. "Okay. I promise. Can we go?"

"Yes." You follow him out into the hall---he's got twin sickles in hand. The sound of several large trolls moving in the other blocks is ominous. The Signless motions for you to follow him into your respiteblock, closing the door inaudibly after you. He heads for the window and whispers, "Go. I'm right behind you."

You realize that he must have known about this window all along and hasn't said anything. No time to think about it. You swing your desk chair over for leverage and kick once, twice, three times on the old, warped glass until it shatters outwards. The cold night air kisses your skin. Heavy footsteps approach from the hall. You throw yourself outside and land on your knees, feeling the glass that now litters the brown cobbled street cut through your pants and break skin in a thousand places.

The Signless drops lithely next to you, grabbing your shoulder and pulling you along. His hood is up. You try not to be overwhelmed by the fact that you're outside for the first time ever, or that the sandy stone you're walking on is incredible under your feet. 

You follow the Signless between the close-together hives. They provide good cover and lots of shadows to hide in whenever the jeers and calls of the subjugglators are close. You don't dare ask where you two are going, instead concentrating on moving silently and not losing the Signless's black-cloaked silhouette in the darkness. He holds up his hand suddenly. You stop, nearly slam into him, and wait in tense silence as he peeks around the corner.

"Come on," he whispers. Hot on his heels, you follow him onto a narrow backstreet. The vast desert that surrounds the village stretches out for miles here. At the end of the street, the cobblestone blends smoothly into sand. Home free?

Someone lunges at you from the left. On instinct, you bring your sword up. There is pressure, and the sound of pierced flesh. Horrified, you turn your head to see a laughsassin impaled on your blade. His painted face is still twisted into a mask of ghoulish laughter. Agonizingly slowly, the corpse slides from the sword and collects on the street like trash left out for the sanitation drones. You feel sick.

The Signless throws you a look of compassion and says gently, "We have to keep moving, Dave. I'm sorry."

"Right. Yeah."

You wipe indigo purple blood from the blade and let it fall to your side as you join the Signless. Just a final stretch. Then the freedom of the endless desert, and safety.

The fast beat of footsteps approaches from both sides, and it's as if the floodgates have opened; subjugglators and laughsassins stream into view, waving weapons and cackling as loud as they can. The Signless takes on a fighting stance; you follow suit. The two of you are surrounded, and you try to remember all of the training sessions you've had over the years, all of the maneuvers and attacks and---

Pretty soon you aren't thinking at all, just moving as fluidly as water, brandishing the sword with expert ease. You're not half bad with the piece of shit. A laughsassin ducks at you, kunais flashing; you sidestep, slash at her shoulder, and watch her go down. More on the right. One swipe of the blade and they fall, all at once. Easy. Move, attack, move. An equation that always provides the same answer.

Sweat drips down your jaw, crimson beads that send the clowns into a frenzy. They become even more disorganized. They fight each other. They swing without strategy. You find it even easier to bring them down, one after another, and soon you can see the Signless again, holding his own against his own horde of purple bloods. For the moment.

His downfall is when he takes just a second too long to jump backwards; a spiked club catches his thigh and he kneels. You get in as close as you can and hack at everything you can, a desperation to save him welling in your stomach. A laughsassin raises a spear. It's positioned over the Signless's head, about to come down and end it, but you're there, and an arc of purple follows your blade when it sings across the clown's throat. 

You shout in the Signless's ear. "Come on, let's run for it."

"No," he croaks, "you go." He blocks an attack with his sickle and slices a chunk out of an enemy's forearm. 

With his wounded leg, he won't be able to run far. You know this. He does, too. The logical thing would be for you to run and him to distract the clowns. It's the only way you'll get out of this alive, you bet. 

You hesitate.

He shoves you away, out of the throng, and you lose sight of him in the mass of bodies. You slice the stragglers that turn on you to pieces and try to engage in the fray again; his voice rises over the chaos in the desert street, loud enough stand out among the subjugglators. "GO! RUN!"

You're a fucking coward.

Because you do what he tells you to. 

You spin on your heel and run, and the clowns don't even notice, or care, because their grand prize is defenseless on the ground, beaten and bloodied and in their reach. You don't look back again. You careen into an alley, hop over an overturned trash bin. Your feet hit the ground hard and you're jolted back into reality. You attempt to formulate some kind of intelligent thought, and can only think of the Signless's original plan: to head out into the desert. 

But that would be suicide. No food, no water, no sense of direction. What's the point? If you head out there, you'll die. But if you stay here, the subjugglators will hunt you down and make it worse. Go or stay? Good question.

Without thinking, you find yourself leaving the town behind and sprinting over sand, sand and rock that eventually bleeds into smooth golden dunes as far as the eye can see. The village has disappeared. Your breath claws its way into and out of its lungs as you fall to your knees among the golden grains, muscles shaking from the effort. You wipe a hand across your face and immediately regret it; purple blood smears everywhere, on your skin and clothes and even the sand.

Once you've gathered yourself, wiped the blood from your hands, cleaned your shades, you sit against a rock with the Signless's husktop unopened in your lap. He gave his life to protect this. At least, you assume he did. His death is the only logical outcome.

You open the lid with bated breath and stare at a video chat program, opened. As soon as you come online, a window opens, and a face appears, taut with worry.

"Signless, thank god---" The voice cuts off, and you stare stoically as the Ψiioniic fades into focus. "Dave, what's going on? Where is he?"

"He gave this to me and told me to run," you say, and even to your own ears your voice sounds robotic. Strained. "He's probably dead by now."

 _"What?"_

"You heard me."

"Dammit, dammit, god _fucking_ dammit." He disappears from the camera's view, and paces past a few times, muttering to himself. He leans down to look the camera head-on again. You stare at his red and blue eyes as they lock onto your shades. "Dave. Tell me that this computer is safe."

"I've got it, haven't I?"

"Alright, alright. That's . . . good. Right." He rubs his temples, trying to keep it together, at least in front of you. He looks like he was poorly glued together and slowly coming apart. "Where are you?"

"Middle of the desert. I don't know."

"I'm with the Summoner and his army right now," he informs you. "We'll run a heat signature scan on the area around the village and find you as soon as we can. Just hang on until then, alright?"

"And what about the Signless?"

He frowns. "We'll look, Dave. He might be alive."

"I doubt it." 

You close the lid.

You stretch out in the sand. The endless scrapes littering your body are now creating a haze of pain around you, as if the blood is evaporating as it flows and hanging in a heavy red cloud over your prone form. You watch with some interest as a particularly deep gash on your arm leaks crimson. You make no move to stem the bleeding.

Wind carries the smell of a distant fire under your nose.

Coward.

~ATH

Your name is ERIDAN AMPORA.

Your body still aches from your nose-dive to Alternia, the subsequent agonizing landing in the ocean, a short but painful swim to the shore, and the further strain of carrying Feferi to a rocky but secluded cove fifty yards up the beach.

In short, you are exhausted.

But there's no time to waste. You set Fef's limp body down on a spot in the sand where there are no rocks and the tide laps gently, then set to work. You check your inventory, realizing how idiotic it was of you not to bring anything else. Then again, you hadn't the time to think out the rescue mission all that well in the heat of the moment.

You have your rifle---helpful---and a husktop. Also useful. There's a tube or two of nutrition paste, but that won't last long. Some rope. Assorted belongings. All in all, an okay set up, for now. Soon enough you'll need help. And it won't be easy to come by. 

You don't have the energy to worry about it now. The most you can do is make sure that Feferi, who'd seemingly fainted somewhere between the flagship and the water, is still alright. She is. You move away from the shore and find a shallow pool surrounded by craggy red rock. You strip your cape, jacket, and shirt off, hanging them to dry on the sun-scorched rocks, and splash some of the cool saltwater on your gills. First your neck, then the sides of your torso.

The moon is bright on the scene. You shimmy down into just your undershorts and sit in the pool, which can't be more than five feet across. The water reaches the bottom of your chest. It's relaxing. You allow yourself a moment's peace, resting your back on one of the smoother stones around the pool and closing your eyes behind your thick lenses.

"Eridan?"

 _"Jesus fuck!"_ You jump up at speeds never reached by trollkind and cover yourself in seconds with your cape. You weren't in the buff, but your shorts only cover so much. You feel your cheeks cool with a flush of violet. "Can't a troll get any fuckin' privvacy around here?!" You know you're flustered when your accent comes back. 

"Sorry, sorry!" You can't tell who's more embarrassed; you or her. Fef dances away with her hands over her eyes. You hurry to dry yourself with the cape and practically teleport into your clothes. 

"Okay, you can look," you grumble, straightening your collar. 

She peaks through her fingers before letting them fall to her sides. Your slippery, awkward history with her is slathered on the ground between you two, impossible to ignore and in danger of tripping you at any time. You're not sure if you should speak or not. Your failed moiraillegiance comes to mind, an ugly stain on your memory. She seems distracted by the environment, saving you from having to bring up any unpleasant topics of conversation.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asks, a little dreamily. You don't know what she's referring to. The sand is a bit too grey to be very pretty, and the rocks don't glimmer at all. The water is clear, you admit, but not breathtaking.

"What is?" you probe, taking a few steps closer and thanking the gods for burying your accent again.

She smiles at you. "Everything."

You remember just then that she has been imprisoned on a hunk of metal for several sweeps. Of course "everything" is beautiful to her, even the ugly little crabs that scuttle around here and there. You pass her and stop at the shoreline, just out of reach of the lapping waves. "Sure. I guess."

Her face puckers a bit, soured by your mood, so you try to ease up. Your attitude was the driving factor behind the split between you two. In an attempt to lighten up, you go on, "I like the pool."

"I figured," she laughs, spurred on by your gift of indirect kindness. "You got very acquainted with it, didn't you?"

"Ha, ha, everyone's a comedian." You cross your arms and scowl. The moment of lightheartedness has passed, and it's time to get serious. "We need to talk about where we're going from here."

"Why don't we stay?" she sighs, knee-deep in the surf. Her skirt is torn to half its original length and drifts lazily in the current. You don't enter the water with her. "It's so nice here. And peaceful."

She's quiet for a moment. "I forgot what the water felt like."

You falter. It's hard to press military-like preparation on someone who's been abused for so long, especially because she looks it, too. Stick-thin. Dry, papery skin. Limp hair. Just from standing in the waves, improvement is visible. "Er. Sorry."

"It's alright. It's not your fault." Feferi turns around to watch you from waist-deep water. Her face brightens. "Well? Aren't you going to join me, Mr. Grumpy Gills?"

You don't deserve this.

You don't deserve to spend time with someone so wholly and completely pure of heart, someone who, even after sweeps of near-torture at the hands of a blood relative, can still smile and invite someone like you---someone impure and darkened to the core---back with open arms. She must feel guilty about the rescue mission. She must. Why else would she care about what an awful troll like you does?

"Alright. Just for a while."

"Yes!"


	7. "If We Do Not End War, War will End Us." - Troll H.G. Wells

Your name is ROSE LALONDE.

A rope is being tightened around your neck.

This fact registers as you fall reluctantly into consciousness, the last dredges of sleep melting away with alarming speed. The fibers of the rope are like splinters on your skin. The gills on the sides of your neck bleed openly, but you can make no move to do anything about it, not with rough hands on your arms, holding you up. The rope scratches the raw skin again. You can't even bring yourself to open your eyes, because this is it---they're going to kill you.

You finally open your right eye---the left is swollen shut---and find yourself staring into the excited eyes of a female brown blood. She grins wickedly as she secures the noose around your neck. "Enjoy the show, highblood."

She steps aside and the jeers and calls of a thousand lowbloods assault your ears, flooding them with insults and demands for violet swill to hit the floor. You watch from the raised wooden platform you're standing on as the lowbloods fill the street. The night air is heavy over the raucous crowd, and they scream in a chaotic yet synchronized need for violence. You wish they would understand that the death of one young highblood will not end this war. You wish that by dying, you could change anything.

You wish for a lot of things.

The female troll nods, and the two males supporting your weight half-drag you forward across the platform, onto a trapdoor. The noose is secured to a bar overhead. Their makeshift gallows are poorly constructed, but they'll do the job, you know. A burly green blood grips a lever out of the corner of your eye. You know that when he pulls it, the trapdoor beneath you will swing open, you will fall, and most likely your neck will snap (which is the best case scenario, since it would be an instant death), or you will slowly suffocate (which is the worst cast scenario, because it will take several minutes of intense pain and humiliation.

He's going to do it, you think. Any second now.

The female struts across the edge of the platform, looking down on the lowbloods crowding up against it. "Before the night's main event, perhaps a bit of an introduction? Don't fret, what you came to see will be happening very soon! But there's no use in drawing out the festivities, is there?"

Mangled replies from the crowd. She smiles, continuing, "This highblood captain"--- roars of disapproval from the rebels---"came here, to our home, hoping to take the only thing we have left, our inspiration, the reason we fight, and what happened? She was bested! Her soldiers were slaughtered! And now, beaten, defeated, she awaits death at our hands for the enjoyment of all of you.

"I wonder, though. Does she even know what her wrongs are?"

The lowblood struts back to you, the grin in place. You can't fight her, as you're using all of your energy to stay standing; so you are helpless when her fist winds back and rams into your already fractured ribs. A weak cry that's mostly air surfs out of your mouth on a wave of blood. She might as well have stabbed you. 

"Look at her," the brown blood shouts, facing the crowd. "Reduced to nothing. What does the Baroness say? That her soldiers are 'perfect specimens'? Bullshit! This one is proof enough. Just watch all that royal trash pouring from her veins, her purple prejudice. . . ."

You stop paying attention. Another, familiar sound gurgles nearby, so welcoming and sweet that you can barely believe your ears. 

Running water.

You search frantically, and there it is---a manhole is open to the left of the platform, and sewage-water rushes past, barely visible from where you are. The platform is about nine feet off the ground, but you can still see and smell and hear that water, and though it's filthy you want nothing more than to dive into it and be completely swallowed up in its caress.

An idea begins to take root.

If you can just get into the water, they'd be powerless to stop you. You're a seadweller. They're all landdwellers. Of course you'd be home free, but there's still a number of obstacles in the way, namely: a thousand or so rebels, a noose around your neck, no weapons to speak of, and perhaps worst of all, metal cuffs around your wrists, behind your back. You strain against them. They're solid, sliding down to the bottom of your palm before they stop, and you're unable to squeeze them any farther.

The helplessness of the situation is more suffocating than the noose, and your spirit sinks, more dejected than ever. The brown blood is still delivering her spiel. The crowd is agitated, impatient for your demise. You hope that they enjoy this is if nothing else.

But the current is still loud in your head, until you swear you can hear the water running under the street and out of the city, far off and into safety. 

You recall something you'd been told the first day of your enlistment. 

_"Accepting defeat is the greatest dishonor, the most grievous failure, and should you ever allow a lowblood to best you because you do nothing to help yourself, then you are worse than they are. You are no highblood. You are no soldier. The Empress rejects you. You are nothing, and you deserve the fate you receive."_

You have to get out.

Forget the Empire, forget your orders, forget the hemospectrum and the war and the battles---if you're hanged tonight you will die a failure in your own eyes.

There is only one course of action that your racing mind can calculate, and the very thought makes you sick. But you have no options. Desperation is a drug in itself sometimes. 

The brown blood is winding down in her speech. ". . . so do you see now? That no matter how she became involved, this seadwelling _whore_ deserves to die? Our oppression at the hands of her brethren transitions to her hands as well. They are all at fault. And one day, they will _all_ die!"

The applause is thunderous, rivaled only by your pulse in your auricular sponge clots. You test the strength of the cuffs again. They hold. Now you pull until you've reached the point where pain would usually stop you in your tracks, only you keep straining, until the skin of your left hand breaks beneath the metal as it slides upwards. 

"Are you ready, all of you? Are you ready to see justice?"

Your breath tears in and out of your throat. You wrench farther, and almost all of the skin on the top of your hand has been torn right off; now you realize that your flesh won't be the only thing to go if you plan to get your hand free. The bones creak almost audibly as further strain is placed on them. If you keep this up they'll snap clean into pieces, but how can you give up now, with violet blood running off your fingers and the trolls inches away from executing you?

"Are you ready for a wrong to be righted?"

The noise is incredible. Heat flashes from your core, nervousness amplified a thousandfold. You feel the more brittle of your left hand's bones begin to physically _bend_ , groaning and warping under pressure, and any moment now they will shatter---

"Watch closely now. How long can one stupid bitch last, do you think?"

It is at this moment that the first bones are smashed into fragments. The timing is right, because when you throw your head back and scream, they mistake it for fear; they would never suspect that your hand is almost free and all that's stopping you is your knuckles.

When they finally break, all of them, and your thumb dislocates, and your hand slides free, everything goes fuzzy. Your eyes roll back and then return to their original position. Without warning, the real pain pulses from the mangled hand, and---this is your prodigious moment of weakness---the tears that you've battled since you first woke up into this nightmare spill from your eyes and down your cheeks and off your chin, and god, how weak can you possibly be before you snap in the wind?

But it doesn't matter. Any second now the brown blood will signal the other troll to pull the lever and send you to your death. You let your crushed hand fall and bring up your right hand, using it to help in a violent struggle to slip out of the noose. It rubs your face so hard as it leaves you that you think you might bleed; in the case of your mouth and nose, you actually do. It's free of your head completely by the time the lowbloods realize what's happening and erupt.

Well, bully for them.

Everything hurts, everything, and yet you still leap to the left just as the trapdoor rends a gaping hole in the platform. The brown blood darts at you. When your right hand makes contact with her nose, you both shriek, and you're pretty sure you feel more pain than her. It's good enough to get you to the edge of the platform. You stare at the nine foot drop, then at the chain-link fence that separates a thousand trolls with death in mind from this side of the platform. Now or never.

You don't jump so much as you fall, and roll to a stop on dirty asphalt. The chain-link is squealing in protest as the lowbloods press against it. You block the noise out, crawling on broken bones to the manhole. You look back. The fence bends to the will of its attackers just as you reach your destination, and you hear the footsteps of the executor as he dives from the platform to apprehend you. Too late, all of them.

You hit the garbage-water head first and don't even care that the smell is revolting, or that it's overly warm, or that your damaged gills make processing water difficult and painful. You have escaped death. This current of sewage will carry you to safety. Outside the walls of this city, where highbloods like you are in charge, you'll be alright. Cared for.

Two hours later, you wash up on a beach.

~ATH

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS.

You hate everything. 

The army has packed up and kept going, disregarding your total failure at the hands of Terezi Pyrope, a total failure that no one seems to care about. You should have killed her. You should have cut her head off, stabbed her through the chest, gutted her, choked her, _something_!

Your lips still burn where hers touched them. 

Scowling, you drag your feet through the sand as the rebels move in loose formation, helmed by the Summoner as usual. He's been joined by a troll you've never seen before in a yellow-and-black jumpsuit. The other rebels are chattering about the battle, the unexplained retreat of the tealbloods, and speculation as to why the Summoner ordered you all to let them go. Not that you care. You feel useless and exhausted. 

For whatever reason, the army has switched directions, delving even deeper into this stupid desert, closer to the caves you left behind earlier. You're so sick of it. If you never see another grain of sand in your miserable life, you'll die happy. Or at least, a little less depressed.

The signal goes out to stop, and you skirt around the edge of the fighters and get to the front to watch. The jumpsuit troll has walked ahead. You look past him and see someone standing in the middle of fucking nowhere, holding a sword and wearing really stupid sunglasses. In the middle of the night.

Nothing makes sense right now.

The Summoner starts toward him, then turns and scans the faces of his soldiers, stopping on you. "Vantas. Come here."

Now you _know_ something's going on, because why else would the leader of the rebellion ever care to speak privately to a low-life like you? He's probably going to ask you to shine his boots or something equally befitting of a troll of your status. Instead, he puts a large hand on your shoulder and steers you away, leaning his head down to talk in your ear.

"Listen to me carefully," he enunciates. You nod as he continues. "That troll over there, with the sword, will be joining us shortly. Then we'll be heading back to the caves. Once you're sure no one's looking, I want you to find me. You, him, my other friend there, and I have to have a word."

And he dismisses you, without further explanation. Your head aches.

Again, for emphasis: Nothing makes sense.

~ATH

It's nearing dawn by the time the army has settled back into the canyon and its unwelcoming caves. You wait until most have retired to a rocky rest, some for sleep, others to treat wounds, and slip out of the cave into the dark. You fumble down the side of the canyon and down to the sand, sneaking along the wall of rock until you reach what you think is the Summoner's shelter for the night. Hand over hand, you climb, then peak into the first cave you find.

"Come in," the Summoner says. "Sit down." His cave isn't any better than the others you've witnessed; him and the jumpsuit troll sit cross-legged on the pebbly floor, the sword-carrying newcomer sitting awkwardly off to the side. His mouth is in a flat line.

You swallow and do as you're told, dropping next to the small fire he's stoking. The smoke curls up through a hole in the roof and leaves the cavern clear yet scented of charcoal. The troll with sunglasses still perched on his nose doesn't move. You note that he's covered in purple blood, but more importantly he's covered in candy red blood, too, which is never a good sign.

"Karkat Vantas, I'd like you to meet my friend, the Ψiioniic. And this is Dave Strider."

Dave Strider gives the most understated nod in history and goes back to running his fingers over the edge of his blade. The Ψiionniic, at least, offers a tense hello, an unexplained red-and-blue energy sparking over his hands. 

"Now that we're all somewhat acquainted," the Summoner goes on, "we need to get down to business. You've heard of the Signless before, haven't you, Vantas?"

"Sure," you say gruffly, back propped up against the cave wall. "Just a myth."

"Not a myth," he disagrees, watching the smoke dance upwards. "A reality. If you ask Dave here, he'll tell you all about him. But that's not important right now. The Signless _is_ real, and he _is_ in danger."

"Why?"

"Subjugglators captured him." This time the Ψiioniic speaks, voice strained with worry. "The Grand Highblood probably has him by now, if he's not already dead. It's unlikely that they killed him, however. Most likely they'll plan a very showy execution to erase any hopes that the lowbloods have, and make the fight that much easier."

You rub your temple. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because you're his descendant. Dave is, too." 

This pretty much goes over your head, since you're still questioning the Signless's existence, and you don't give two shits about Dave Strider. "Yeah, that's fucking wonderful. That doesn't answer my question."

"If the Signless is dead, then that means that you and Dave are now the only red-blooded mutants alive, and the Empress will do anything to kill you both. She won't stop until you're all dead. We're telling you now, so you'll be prepared when she makes her move."

"So? That's it?"

The Summoner jumps in. "Actually, we have a bit of a task for you two."

"Excuse me?" Dave Strider enters the conversation for the first time, eyebrows raising inestimably. 

"We're going to be moving you both to a safe hive," the Summoner explains. "For your protection. And, if the Signless dies, we need one of you alive, to take up his legacy."

"That's ridiculous," you say, angry for some reason you can't place. "If he's publicly executed, who's stupid enough to believe I'm him? Or Strider?"

"We're not saying you'll pretend to be him," explains the Ψiioniic. "You'll have some kind of alter ego, obviously. The Signless's most trusted official. A mutant blood who stands for his ideals. It's all to give our people something to fight for, and give the Empress something to be afraid of."

"It's all a possibility." The Summoner stands and moves to the mouth of the cave. "If we can rescue the Signless before his death, then none of this will be relevant. If we can't, however . . . we need you two."

"Are we going after him, then?" Dave asks, in his monotone voice. 

"Yes, we are," the Ψiioniic says firmly. "It's a suicide mission, I know, but it's all we can do. You two won't be there, though, we need you alive--- Don't give me that look, Dave, you're going to sit this out."

"No. Fuck you." Dave gets to his feet too. "It's my fault they even got him, I need to be there. You always lock me out of this kind of shit, but this time is different."

The Ψiioniic sighs, eyes closed. "It's too risky. But fine, we'll discuss it later."

You know that there will be no discussion, just from his tone of voice, but no use telling Dave that. He sinks to the ground again and looks away.

"You can go," the Summoner says, breaking the silence. "Tell no one of what we spoke about. And be ready to move at any time."

You walk stiffly to where he's standing, but as you're preparing to climb down, he stops you with another hand on your shoulder. "Wait, Vantas. Karkat. I know none of this is fair to you, and I'm sorry. But nothing is fair these days."

Is he actually trying to apologize? It's a shitty way to do it. "Yeah. Right."

You shrug off his hand and begin your descent. As the cave disappears from view, you catch Dave Strider's shades turned towards you, but his face is unreadable. Not like you care to read it.

~ATH

Your name is NEPETA LEIJON.

It seems the tables have turned.

Your unit is still travelling through the forest, heading towards the distressed lowbloods to help, when the first shuriken slices the air and strikes a tree inches from you. Attack. You're being attacked. You spin, eyes wild, trying to decipher where the highbloods are, but it's dark and they could be anywhere---

But of course they're in the trees. Your own tactic, used against you.

Your head snaps up just as a body leaps from its branch and hits you. The wind knocks out of you, and for a moment you're paralyzed, watching more highbloods fall from above and attack. So sudden. So well-planned. There was never a chance. The highblood above you, a male with insanely blue irises, laughs and raises a serrated knife, ready to plunge it into your windhole. Of course, he gloats first.

"Did you like our fake distress signal, sewageblood?" he inquires, sharp teeth flashing white. "So easy to fool you all, I must say. You walked right into this. Seem familiar, hm?"

He pulls his arm back and aims, ready and willing to end your life. You're frozen. This can't be happening, it's just a nightmare, dry sopor can do that to you---

But it's not a dream. He cackles and brings the knife down, and you cry out when her purposely misses and strikes the grass beneath you. Instead he cocks his fist back and hits you. Again. Again. Dazed, confused, you realize that he's a highblood that likes to play with his food before he eats it. Except again, you are wrong. 

A loud voice rings out. "Round them up. The wardens are growing impatient."

_Wardens?_

You don't understand at all, and can only stare blankly as the highblood throws you over his shoulder with ease and starts marching back to his superior. The others in your unit are receiving the same treatment. Alive, but beaten, and carried by their attackers. The soldier holding you speaks as he goes, unable to keep his mouth shut with excitement. 

"Such a shame I didn't get to kill you. It would have been merciful, compared to what's in store for you at the prison."

"P . . . prison?" you ask groggily, the bouncing motion of his stride upsetting your head and quickly blackening eye. 

He chuckles. "Try to keep up. We're taking you to a prison, to keep you for a few weeks. You'll be culled, obviously, but the Empress figures she might as well squeeze some labor out of you before you die. Quite ingenious."

You don't answer, eyes on the dirt, fear clearing away the fog over your mind. The world is falling away at the edges with every bump of your chin against his shoulder blade. Slowly, darkness falls over your vision, and you feel yourself slipping away, lulled into unconsciousness by the rhythm of his steps.

~ATH

When you come to, you're in a cellblock.

It's made out of entirely grey stone, and you're lying on the ground in its center. You jump up, but the sudden motion nearly empties your stomach sack, so you prop yourself against the wall and breathe deeply, taking in your surroundings. There's no furniture in the room. Just a load gaper and a solid iron door with a slat in it, letting in light from outside. You crawl forward and look through. For a moment, the light is too bright for you to see. Then it's eclipsed by a pair of insane purple eyes.

You scream and fall back, as the purple blooded jailer outside laughs and moves away, letting light back into the cell. You hesitantly return and look out. Across a bland corridor, you can see a door identical to yours, and not much else. You scoot backwards and lie down again, feeling utterly hopeless and tired and confused. So you're going to die in here? How awful.

You realize that you're still in your clothes, and desperately pat them, searching for your weapons. No good. Everything is gone, and so, dejected, you curl up on the ground and stare at the bar of fluorescent light streaming in from the corridor. You'll go mad in here, you swear.

A sharp knock on the iron door makes you jump. The door is heaved open, and the red laser sight of a rifle is trained on you. The highblood behind it is no-nonsense. He flicks the gun, directing you to come closer. "Come on, trash, out."

You cooperate. You want nothing more than to pounce on him and sink your teeth into his exposed throat, but the rest of his grey armor is intimidating and he could kill you at any time. You stumble forward with your hands raised. In the hallway, more lowbloods are being herded from their cells and into a single file line. You're shoved into the line behind a female that's nearly as small as you.

The guards end up shooting three lowbloods before the line begins to move.

The hallway lets out into a yard of sorts, lit brightly by giant white spotlights around the perimeter. The huge space is encircled by walls you could never hope to climb. The line is directed to stop against one of the walls, and you begin to notice the contents of the prison yard, mainly machinery. So this is what they meant by labor.

The head guard turns to speak to the lesser guards, and you catch the word WARDEN stamped across the back of his armor. At his command the armed highbloods grab lowbloods out of line and drag them to work stations. You yourself are sat in front of a sewing machine, told to work if you want to live for a couple more days, and left alone. You should just refuse. You should take the bullet and end this humiliation now.

But no. You find your hands fiddling with the machine's control panel, setting it to begin its function. And you find yourself resupplying the machine with fabric when it alerts you that it's run out. How could you choose death over a few more days, maybe weeks, of life? How could you give up the softness of the fabric under your fingers, even with the hardness of a gun's muzzle in your back? You can't.

You look up at the sky, visible through a chain-like netting that stretches wall-to-wall. You can't even see the stars.

~ATH

Your name is JOHN EGBERT.

"Joooooooohn, are you _ready_ yet?"

"Just a sec!" You make sure your trunk is all packed, and that your suit and tie look impeccable. The Empress of Alternia won't stand for anything less. 

Vriska, impatient, pokes her head into your block. "Hurry up! Do you want to be culled for being late or something?"

"Calm down, I'm ready!" You heave the trunk up by its handle and follow her out into the corridor. She's dressed very sharply as well, in a cerulean dress that matches your tie. It's early in the evening, so when you arrive on deck, no one greets you, not even the Marquise herself. 

The ship is docked at port by now. It's a short walk down the ramp and a long stint down the dock onto the boardwalk, where several of the Condescension's shuttles are lined up in a row, blending in with the night air. A few sailors look on with some interest as you pass them and arrive at the row of shuttles. A troll in an imperial uniform opens the door for you, taking your luggage in the same motion. 

You and Vriska sit down in the lush interior, because diplomats of blue blood are always treated to the best. The troll who took your bags climbs into the cockpit and starts the engine. As he does so, he puts up the divider between the cockpit and the cabin, leaving you and your moirail alone.

"Something to drink?" you ask playfully, standing from your chair and leaning on the glass bar. You wave your hand at the many bottled beverages.

She seems preoccupied, fretting over the imminent meeting with the Empress. You guess she has reason to be worried. The Marquise has already messaged the Condescension, informing her that "My newest Admiral and her guest are responsible for relaying anything you wish to tell them, as I am unable to attend." If anything goes wrong it's on Vriska's head, so you understand. But that's all the reason for you to lighten the mood.

"No, sh," she says, fixing her hair in the mirror. "Everything has to be perfect, John. Don't say anything unless she speaks to you, alright? Just let me do the talking."

You sigh, helping yourself to a fizzy drink that tastes somewhat like urine. Ugh. After a while you take your seat, noting the way the neon green lights running along the tops of the walls reflect off of your jacket. Once Vriska is satisfied with her appearance, she sits back tensely, fingers drumming in an agitated frenzy. You cover her hand with yours and implore her, "Calm down. You're just working yourself up."

"Okay, okay," she agrees, visibly relaxing. "It's a big deal, you know? I'm a little nervous."

"Yes, I know. Now shoosh." There are no windows in the shuttle, but you can feel it when the aircraft leaves the immediate surface of the planet and shoots skyward. It will only take a few minutes to reach the flagship at this rate.

"Do you ever wonder why Mindfang picked you to do this?" you ask, after a quiet moment. "I mean, she could have picked someone older, someone that's been on her crew forever."

"Well, I am practically her clone," she says, not convincing herself. "And maybe she needs her crew? For whatever she's doing?"

"It just seems weird," you say with a shrug, just as the pilot's voice rings out over the intercom.

_"Admiral Serket, Mr. Egbert, we'll be boarding the flagship soon. Please brace for landing."_

The conversation falls slack with the shuttle's somewhat rocky induction into the hull of the flagship. With a jolt, it lands on the floor of the hangar and cuts its engines. _"You are now clear to exit the shuttle. Good night."_

The side doors hiss open and a flight of steps unfold. You help her down the three short steps and into the hangar. It's bustling with activity as highblood diplomats arrive from all over Alternia for a grand meeting with the Condescension, at her request. A pair of trolls in imperial uniform rush to your side with palmtops in hand. 

"Names, please?" one questions, stress permeating her voice.

"Admiral Vriska Serket," Vriska replies, the way Mindfang instructed her to. "And guest Johonn Egbert."

"That checks out," the usher informs you two, checking your names off of her list. She turns to her companion. "Don't just stand there, idiot, take them to their cabin."

"Oh, right!" The frazzled young troll swallows and bows to you and Vriska, taking your bags down from the shuttle as he does so, resulting in a very awkward ducking motion. "Please, follow me."

As the troll takes off, leading you up metal stairs and into the grandly decorated interior of the flagship, Vriska leans over and whispers to you, "I'm really digging this whole Admiral thing."

"You know, I think I could get used to this, too," you whisper back, grinning.

The worker brings you up several flights of stairs, into the upper levels of the ship where the cabins are. He stops, panting slightly, in front of a door with her name stenciled on it in blue. "Right this way, Admiral. The feast with Her Imperious Condescension is in forty-five minutes, upstairs in the ballroom. Please do be prompt."

He hands you the luggage and her a keycard, which she uses to open the door, letting you into the block. It's as lavishly decorated as you'd have expected. The recuperacoon is big enough for two, oozing with sopor, and the hygieneblock off to the side is nearly as big as the main block itself. You whistle and glance through a porthole in the wall. It gives you a wonderful view of outer space.

"Forty-five minutes to kill, huh?" Vriska comments. "Better start unpacking."

Unpacking your trunks and making the room a little more personalized doesn't take very long, so the two of you freshen up and head out to dinner early. The ascent to the ballroom is less severe than the one from the hangar to the cabin. As you're approaching the doors, a troll steps in front of you.

"So this is Mindfang's little replacement?" he asks dryly. The troll is tall and muscular, wearing a purple cape and tunic over pinstriped pants and boots. You swallow audibly. General Dualscar, also known as the Orphaner, places gold-ringed hands on his hips and looks down on you two with distaste.

"That's Admiral to you, _General_ ," Vriska retorts, chin up. Another tip from Mindfang: Don't take Dualscar's bullshit. "And yes, you are correct."

"My worst nightmare has been realized," he says dramatically, bringing a hand up to his head. "Now there are two of them."

"The chat has been lovely, but we are heading off to the ballroom. If you could kindly . . . ?" She makes a gesture as if to say "Get the fuck outta my way", which is exactly what she would say to anyone else. Dualscar is not one to use such language in front of, though.

His lip curls, but other than that his face remains composed. "Of course. I trust you'll be in attendance at the meeting?"

"That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

"Yes. Of course," he repeats. And then he sweeps away, cape making the movement all the more theatrical. 

Vriska glares at him as he disappears. "Man, what a douche bag. He reminds me of Eridan."

A startled laugh escapes you. You'd never thought of the comparison, but now that you think on it it's quite accurate. "Yeah, yeah, let's just get in there already, before we have any other awkward encounters."

The ballroom is indeed extravagant, all black marble floors and silver walls. Tyrian-purple tables take up much of the space. At the head of the ballroom, separated from the tables by a wide dance floor and a small band, the Condescension's empty throne sits. You imagine she'll make quite an entrance.

By the time you find your table, since they're all labeled meticulously, the event is set to begin and the guests have all filled into their seats. All of the tables vary in size according to how many guests the diplomat brought along. In your case, it's a measly table set for two; in some cases, there's only one chair, and in others, up to eight trolls are present. All eyes are on the throne as you await the Condescension's arrival.

The doors you'd entered through are opened by a pair of guards, and everyone looks on as Her Imperious Condescension arrives, double-sided trident in hand. It feels as if all of the air has been sucked from the room and absorbed into the Empress. You swear you feel the temperature dropping, and rub your arms subconsciously as she crosses the length of the room and seats herself upon her throne.

She smiles down at her guests, then raises one hand. "Let the festivities begin."

Servers appear almost from nowhere and serve the meal. You won't lie---it's the best food you've ever tasted, hands down. Everyone seems to appreciate as well. So far, so good. Once the plates are clear and the guests are content, the Condesce addresses her subjects.

"A fantastic meal to complement a fantastic evening," she begins. "I welcome you to enjoy the party. The conference will begin shortly."

You were expecting a long speech, but as the Condesce steps down from her throne and leaves the ballroom, it becomes clear that you're wrong. The doors shut behind her and the band begins to play. Some of the guests take to the dance floor, waltzing along to the music. You stand up to dance as well, but your partner is staring across the room, where Dualscar is sitting alone, drinking. He meets her eyes and smiles. The scars that bridge his cheeks and cross his nose distort with his face.

"Come on," you sigh, taking her wrist and yanking her out of her seat. "Forget about him."

As you awkwardly dance (mainly because the both of you are awful), she whispers in your ear angrily. "He's such a loser. I don't see what Mindfang sees in him, though a black romance is probably the only way she can beat the shit out of him without serious consequence."

"He's just trying to rile you up," you say calming, trying to diffuse the situation. "I guess he really wants to get Mindfang pissed by messing with you or something."

She scowls. "Maybe. Or maybe he thinks we're just a couple of kids that can't handle anything like this."

"But we _are_ a couple of kids."

"Oh, shut it, you."

With a cheeky grin, you twirl her one last time. A guard arrives and announces that the Condesce is prepared for the conference, so you and Vriska follow the stream of highbloods into the hall, up another flight of stairs, and into a long, narrow block with an equally long and narrow table. The Condesce is already seated at the head. Guards line the walls. You find two seats (both labeled Admiral Serket) and take them, and Vriska scowls again when she notices how far from the head of the table you two are, especially when there is an empty seat with Mindfang's name on it just two chairs away from the Condescension.

"Are we set to begin?" the Condesce asks, though everyone knows the meeting will only commence once she is ready, disregarding anyone else. "Good. You may now submit your reports."

You lean your chin on your hand, bored, as she goes from troll to troll, listening to any information they provide. Sometimes she comments. Sometimes she doesn't. This all feels a bit redundant---any of the things you're hearing right now could easily have been relayed through e-mail or messenger---but you're not about to question the way the Empress works.

Vriska's posture is commendable when the Condesce's eyes fall on her, begging the question: What do you have to say? Vriska takes a breath and begins to recite all that Mindfang had told her to say, shoulders squared against the amused looks that the older diplomats give her. It's mostly a recounting of the attack, the loss of the fleet, and the escape of the unidentified lowbloods. Her cheeks are iced blue with embarrassment. You wouldn't want to admit that you were defeated by some lowblood scum, either.

Dualscar's face twitches into a smirk, but because he's sitting far away, at the Empress's right hand, you think you're imagining it.

The Condesce waits until Vriska's finished to say, "Quite a disappointment. Do remember to tell the Marquise that I expect better from her."

A sharp nod in reply. As the next highblood is permitted to speak, you pat her hand comfortingly, but don't dare to speak. The last few diplomats chip in their two cents. All eyes return to the Condescension. Her former smile is gone, replaced with a calculating expression.

"I have news that must not leave this table." Instant silence. "The heiress apparent has been kidnapped by a rogue soldier. My dearest descendant is missing, and I'm worried out of my mind."

Her tone of voice contradicts this statement.

"Considering this fact, there will be reassignments for some of you," she goes on, and a few people shift nervously in their plush padded chairs. "General Dualscar, seeing as the offender is _your_ charge, you are responsible for bringing them back here, immediately."

The general bows his head, ever the humble servant, and you flinch when the Empress turns her fuchsia eyes on you (or, rather, Vriska, but it feels like she's looking at you). "Admiral, make sure that the Marquise understands this clearly: I will not stand for anymore of her games. If she tests me further, I will have her head."

You have no idea what that means, but it sounds ugly. The color drains from Vriska's face. She nods again. The Condescension moves on, and you meet Vriska's panicked eyes. She tries to convey some thought through the glance, but it's lost on you, because at that moment Dualscar stands and says something that makes your blood chill.

"I have a request," he proclaims, and you know it's going to be bad, just from that beginning, "for the Admiral and her guest to be tried for treason against the Empire."

Eyes dart to you, weighing the possibilities---are they spies? Lowblood allies? You want to jump up and yell that he's lying, you've never done anything that would upset the social order, but the Condesension's narrow eyes rest on Dualscar, then Vriska, then you, and back again. She rests her chin on her hand.

"Make your case, then, General."


	8. "We Have Been Traveling Through a Cloud. The Sky Has Been Dark Ever Since the War Began." - Troll Black Kettle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /yawns loudly

Your name is ARADIA MEGIDO.

Your barely-healed wounds protest adamantly when you drop to the ground and army-crawl through the snow, but you simply can't take any risks. There could still be enemy soldiers out here in this retched old forest. And if they heard your palmtop beeping, you're dead meat. You huddle close to iced underbrush and dig out the device. A message is flashing across the screen, the sender being an easily recognizable individual.

\- -twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling apocalypseArisen at 8:25 - -

TA: hey aa.  
AA: s0llux  
AA: its been a while  
TA: what'2 up wiith the 0?  
TA: are you okay?  
AA: im fine  
TA: alriight. ii have 2omethiing 2eriious two tell you.  
TA: where are you?  
TA: ii2 thii2 a bad tiime?  
AA: im in a f0rest  
AA: but yes this is actually a very bad time  
TA: well that'2 two bad.  
TA: ju2t giive me a miinute to explaiin.  
TA: gg ju2t trolled me about her plan2.  
AA: plans 0f the rebelli0us nature  
TA: ye2, exactly.  
TA: and we could really u2e your help.  
AA: im 0n a missi0n at the m0ment  
AA: ill see what i can d0  
TA: okay. great.  
TA: gg ii2 goiing two do 2omethiing that'2 dangerou2 a2 fuck.  
TA: a2 iin, 2he'2 goiing two break iin two the fuckiing barone22'2 flag2hiip.  
AA: thats imp0ssible  
AA: but 0kay  
TA: wow. really?  
AA: yes  
AA: i am n0t afraid t0 die  
TA: don't talk liike that.  
TA: you'll be fiine.  
AA: n0 s0llux  
AA: i kn0w im g0ing t0 die s0meday  
AA: when it happens isnt imp0rtant  
TA: ju2t...ju2t chiill, okay?  
TA: gg wiill contact you about detaiil2 2oon.  
TA: don't get your2elf kiilled.  
TA: plea2e. for me.  
\- -twinArmageddons [TA] ceased trolling apocalypseArisen [AA] at 8:32- -  
AA: n0 pr0mises

You stash the palmtop away and remain prone, nose to the snow, numb from cold and something else that you can't identify.

You can't explain it, or even find its source. It's like someone took an eraser and scrubbed out that piece of you. All you know is, sometime between your encounter with Equius Zahhak, and upon waking in Kanaya Maryam's shop, something has changed. And the worst part is that you don't care to figure out what that something is.

Slowly, laboriously, you push up from the ground and stand, having deemed the coast to be quite clear. A shiver racks your spine. You shake snow from your clothes and trudge on, waiting for GG to contact you. It's been so long since you've spoken to her. She never really got to know you or any of your friends, remaining a mysterious, almost anonymous character up until the war's start, when she disappeared altogether.

Your boot sinks into a mushy patch of ice water just as the palmtop beeps again, this time with a voice chat request. You tap the "Accept" button and move into a spot where the moonlight will illuminate your face. 

A voice from the device cheerfully says, "Hello, Aradia!" 

"GG?" you half-whisper. The threat of enemy soldiers is still present.

"That's right!" Her voice loses some of its brightness as she pauses. "I had considered a video chat for this arrangement, but I think it's best if I remain in the shadows for a little while longer, just until we meet up face-to-face."

"Understandable."

"Now, before anything, I just want to say thank you. Not a lot of people would do this for someone they've never met!"

You want to tell her the real reason. You want to blurt out that you can't go after Equius yet, because you're afraid of what you'll do when you see him, and you're only offering to help her because you are desperate to find a way out of this. But you don't. Instead, you make a noise of acknowledgement in your throat and listen to her blather on.

"I'm going to need your coordinates, please. Just to see what kind of distance we're dealing with here."

"Distance?" you repeat, with mild interest.

"I'm currently living on an island," she explains. "I might have to travel for a while, depending on how far you are."

By this point, you've already sent her the coordinates, which she studies for a moment before replying. "Good. This isn't that far, actually. I think the biggest challenge will be getting to mainland . . ."

She trails off, chatting with herself. You lean against a tree trunk and kick the vines of a carnivorous plant away. This is all moving very quickly.

"If everything goes as planned," GG says, after some time, "then I will reach your destination in two nights. And that's pushing it. In the meantime, before I let you go, I'd better give you a briefing, huh?"

You don't answer. It's easier. She continues, "The flagship is currently very close to your position. In fact, if you look at the sky, you might be able to see it! Once I reach you things will get a little dicey. We're going to have to stow away on a shuttle heading for the ship, and if that isn't difficult enough on its own, we'll have to find a way to get off of it without being spotted. Which, according to these documents Sollux sent me, won't be easy, considering the amount of guards on patrol."

"Bring it on," you say, which would have been badass had your voice not been very flat. You're not sure how to change it anymore.

"That's the spirit! Now, the chip that we're trying to steal is the only device in the world that has a store of the Condescension's DNA on it. If you didn't know, her DNA can override Imperial technology with outstanding efficiency. We really, _really_ need that chip."

"Fair enough."

She sighs. "Getting off the ship without dying will be tough, too, but we ought to persevere!"

"Of course."

"I need to get moving if this is going to work," she informs you. You hear something near her shift over the microphone. "We'll talk more when I get there. Bye! Thanks again!"

The chat disconnects. You shove the palmtop out of sight and trudge on, stopping when you realize that you'll have to stay in the immediate area for the next two nights. But this is probably a good thing in disguise. This way you'll have time to scout for Imperial Soldiers in the forest, and should you find any, you'll be able to warn GG in advance. 

You uncoil your whip and let it drag in the snow as you walk. 

You're ready for anything, you think. Kind of.

~ATH

Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA.

They're laughing at you.

They're laughing, even when you kill them.

You grab a troll by the collar and rope him in, wrap your hands around his neck and _squeeze_. His left eye pops out. Then his right. His face quivers and he claws at your fingers, but it's useless, and he falls limp, still twitching. You drop the corpse and roar at absolutely nothing.

Your next victim is a cackling female. You get her by the horns and drag her screaming to the ground. You slam her head into the ground, once, twice, third time's the charm, and her skull caves in like nothing, spilling blood and brain across the floor. A grin is frozen on her face. You slip in the mess as you stalk away, rage burning in your every orifice. 

One of your hands curls around another troll's head, and the other braces on their shoulder; you _jerk_ your arm back 

_(snap)_

and break the neck easily. The body falls to the ground. Because of the broken spine, the face is twisted around to look at you. It smiles. You smile back.

A troll trips in its attempt to get away from you. Your foot pins the troll's writhing form to the floor. You lean down, grind a knee into his back, and whisper, "Ain't this a fun game? Ain't it a fucking riot?"

You don't wait for an answer. You drive your elbow into the back of his skull until its stained with blood, everything is blood, your clothes and his skin and the floor. You stand and turn and there it is.

The Grand Highblood sits upon a throne, watching you, bored.

"Makara," he booms. "Is that all you got?"

And then you wake up.

You sit up fast. Your horns hit the edge of the recuperacoon, and you nearly swallow a mouthful of slime, which simply would not be allowed. You're sworn off of sopor. It's fucking poison, clouding up your head like a motherfucking fog. The GHB has already told you all of the shit that happens when you eat that shit. 

Rubbing your sore horns, you shake off the last traces of the daymare and crawl out, wiping slime from your body and trudging into the hygieneblock. You clean off the sopor in the bath and dry up meticulously---the paint is hard to put on if your skin is even slightly wet. In front of the mirror, you apply the paint with utmost care. It is the mark of the subjugglator. It is always the same. 

You dress in your laughsassin garb and head out into the hallway of this borrowed hive. You and the subjugglators are still camping out in the desert town, awaiting further orders. The GHB has holed up in another hive with the captured Signless. You're getting anxious, ready to get out there and start killing again, but you're not about to be culled for defecting or some shit. Best to lay low and chill the fuck out.

Through the livingblock window, you see some subjugglators parading on the street, showing off the villagers they've killed. The two adult trolls that lived in this hive before you showed up are lying in a bloody heap by the door. You didn't kill them, just found them like that, and claimed their home all the same. You kind of want to go out there and get in the middle of the action. You don't. You sort of collapse onto the sofa.

There's a splash of candy red blood on your clothes, from the attack. You think it came from a slash to the Signless's shoulder. You run your finger over the dry, cracked patch and remember something. Your memory strains---what is that? Grey text, caps lock. It's. . . .

Oh, right. Karbro.

He's been fading from your memory these days, disappearing at the edges and losing focus. You're trying to care. You're trying to want the memories of your moirail back, trying to be as torn up as you were when the split first happened; but that was before the Grand Highblood showed up and showed you what a filthy mutant Karkat Vantas is. How did he do that? You can't remember, but you do know that Karkat is better off away from you. If you see him again, you'll do what's expected. You'll kill the little fucker and be done with it, right?

Then why does that thought feel wrong?

You shake your head, kick out with one foot. The coffee table flips. Angry now, you imagine going outside and doing to the other subjugglators what you did to the trolls in your dreams. But that would be stupid. You can't kill them. Kill low bloods and mutants and rebels, but never highbloods. Are you stupid or something?

The front door blows open on its hinges, knocked down by a powerful kick, and you stare, irritated, as the GHB appears in the doorway. He's a fucking giant. He has to bend down to squeeze through the door. You don't acknowledge him, opting to keep your eyes on his hands---they'd do the most damage.

"I've searched every crack in this goddamn shit-bucket for you," he growls, but he doesn't yell, so you're probably okay. "We need to have a talk, don't you think?"

"Sounds good."

"DON'T SPEAK UNLESS I ASK YOU TO, RUNT." His hand tangles in your robes and flings you. You hit the overturned table and break it with your weight. You lie among the shards of wood and groan, not bothering to stand up. He likes to tower over you, anyway, because that's exactly what he does. 

"Now. The Empress has just told me that that MUTANT FREAK'S boy must be apprehended. He may have gotten away now, but you'll find him."

"Me?"

His heel hammers down on your exposed chest. Coughing, you listen as he says, "I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH. Anyway. I will be delivering the mutant to the Condescension herself. YOU will be finding the boy. Kill him. Clear?"

"Crystal, motherfucker."

Instead of hitting you again, he yanks you by the collar to your feet. "Don't take anyone with you."

You stand there. His fingers ball into a fist and make contact with your face.

"What are you waiting for? MOVE IT!"

You do. 

Out the door, onto the street. So, you've got your wish. Time to go find a bitch and get your kill on. People watch as you stride purposefully down the cobblestones, hands loose at your side. You're going to do what you're told and this time, you're going to like it.

The mutant that escaped made it into the desert; you really have no chance of finding him without some help. Fortunately for you this desert is home to herds of white hoofbeasts as far as the eye can see.

This is going to be the most ridiculous thing you've ever done. 

~ATH

Your name is TEREZI PYROPE.

"What troubles you, girl?"

Redglare's footsteps approach from your left. You're sitting in the sand, sniffing the dark sky, thoughtful. All of the other soldiers in your platoon are asleep in their recently-pitched tents by now. For once, as your role model sits down next to you, your heart doesn't flutter with excitement. You're preoccupied.

"You're the best legislacerator in the world," you blurt, disturbing the smooth surface of the sand with your fingertips. "Was there ever a time when the law was . . . wrong?"

You're cringing at the thought, but she answers honestly all the same. "When I first made neophyte I was tasked with finding and arresting a woman who was the very definition of lawless. She murdered thousands, stole twice as much . . . truly vile, she was."

"So? Did you bring her to justice?"

"I couldn't," she admits. "She was given a position of power by the Empress herself. Because she ranked above of me, it would have been against the law for me to kill her."

"So the law can be wrong?"

She carries the hint of a smile on her voice. "That's for you to decide, Pyrope. Come find me when you've figured it out."

Her footsteps fade away; you hear the flap of her tent swish open and then close. You remain motionless for several moments. You mull things over, deduce, work the problem the way a great legislacerator would. When you feel you've got the right answer you nearly bolt to her tent and tear the flap open.

"I've got it," you announce. "The law can be wrong."

"No. You're wrong."

You nearly fall over.

"You've been ensnared by the black-and-white answer, Pyrope." She sighs. "I'd expected better of you."

You sit down on the threshold of the tent, a rapidly growing headache heavy on your brow. "I don't understand."

"It's hard, when you're young," she concedes. "The concept is abstract. But think of it this way: You can do anything under the law."

"I don't understand."

"The law said that I couldn't kill her for her crimes, because of her rank; but surely there's some other way that I could kill her with no legal repercussions."

"Like what?" Curious, you lean forward and rest your chin on your knees. 

"I'm still researching that." You hear her turning the pages of some ancient-smelling book. "But I'm sure to find a loophole somewhere. The object of the game isn't just to play by the rules---it's to play by your rules, too."

"I guess that makes sense. Kind of." Your headache isn't letting up, but you think you're getting it.

She chuckles. "Why do you ask, girl? Something the matter?"

You want to say something about Karkat; about how you broke the law by letting him live, especially when you were so capable of killing him. But how could you possibly admit to any of that? She'd be so disappointed, probably kick you out in total disgust. So you lie. 

"Just wondering."

You're dismissed. Outside, the sun is nearly visible, a sliver of red-orange on the horizon. Better get inside now, before you're burnt to a crisp. You take a last sniff of the fiery crescent and duck into your tent. Before sliding into the 'coon, you check your husktop for messages, and find several missed video chat requests from arachnidsGrip.

Looks like things just got interesting. 

Just as you're getting ready for sleep, the husktop alerts you of yet another video chat request, again from Vriska Serket. You could've sworn you blocked her sweeps ago. On a whim, you sit down on the canvas floor, drag the computer towards you, and hit "Accept." Might as well give the mega-bitch a minute.

The image on-screen materializes to display Vriska's anxious face; it's been a very long time since you've last seen her, and she looks different. Her features carry none of the old traces of grubhood. You yourself aren't exactly a newly-hatched kid, either. When she sees you, her eyebrows shoot up. All of her tiny movements are sensitive to your nose.

"It's about fucking time!" is her opening statement. You suppress the urge to roll your sightless eyes. "Do you know how many times I called you on this shitty chat client? More than eight, probably!"

"My finger is hovering dangerously close to the 'Disconnect' button," you warn her. "What do you want?"

She flips her hair over her shoulder. "Ugh. Calm down, Pyrope. Where's the sisterly love, anyway? Don't answer that. Okay. So. I need your help."

You laugh. At first it's startled, but then it blends into your trademark cackle. This is quite literally the most hilarious moment of your life.

"Shut up!" Irritated, her cobalt irises lock onto you. "Just shut up. _Will you just listen to me_?"

"Why," you gasp, between peals of laughter, "would I _ever_ want to help you?"

She sighs loudly. "I know we haven't been friends for a while, and our friendship ended on kind of awkward terms, but this is important. General fucking Dualscar is trying me for treason against the Empire and I didn't do shit!"

"I'm supposed to believe that?"

"Yes! I am totally, completely, wholeheartedly innocent and they're about to throw John and I into intergalactic prison or some shit. Oh, and then we're going to die!"

Honestly, you don't care, but she's caught your attention. "What do you think little old me could do about this?"

"I need a legislacerator to represent me in the courtblock," she confesses. Bashfully, she adds, "Mindfang won't give me the money to hire a real one."

"Are you implying that I'm not a real one?"

"No! Stop messing with my head." She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, then speaks. "Look, I know you're not obligated to do anything for me and I've been a huge bitch, but if you won't do it for me, think of John! He just came along for the ride and ended up totally screwed."

You smile. "I can't look, stupid! I'm blind!"

"Oh, come on," she wheedles. "Scourge Sisters ride again, one last time. Then you can go back to whatever the fuck it is you're doing."

"Only fighting a war," you cackle. "I'll give you a chance, Vriska. What's in it for me?"

She seems surprised. "Well, what do you want?"

You think. You think about what you could possibly gain from helping her, what she could possibly give you.

"I want to kill you."

Surprise turns into shock, and then anger. "Ha, ha, very fucking funny, Terezi. That's what I'm trying to avoid here. Now what do you want?"

"I was just kidding." You aren't kidding at all. "I want red chalk. A lot of it!"

Laughing shrilly, you disconnect. 

One day you're going to kill her.

~ATH

Your name is FEFERI PEIXES.

"Okay, enough messin' around," Eridan announces. "Time to get down to business."

You make a noise of consent in your throat, not really paying attention. But who could possibly blame you? You're FRE----E! Er, you mean, free! After sweeps in a cell you're back on Alternia, in _water_ no less. You're spreadeagled on the lightly convulsing waves, floating effortlessly, while Eridan treads water somewhere behind you. The water is cool and hot and sweet and salty. You're in love.

"Come on, get serious." He splashes closer to you, his face a sheen of pale grey-pink in the moonlight. "We won't last five minutes if we don't get to work soon."

"Alright, alright." Sighing heavily, you press your weight downwards and feel the water close over you fully. You let out a cheerful glub and rocket back towards the tiny cove. Eridan is slightly behind. His strokes are more powerful, but his frame is bigger than yours, and the water resistance holds him back. You beat him there and perch on a smooth rock.

He emerges from the water with a perpetual scowl on his features, shoulders squared unnaturally, but aside from that he looks like he's been carved out of the beach itself---his hair is black-sky, the purple in his hair and eyes just fragments of the stones by the beach; his skin is sand and his movements are currents, lithe and flowing, even when he's not trying. 

He doesn't notice you staring and shakes water from his skin, taking a seat on a rock near yours. You focus on your tattered skirt---it's going to fall apart one of these days---until he addresses you. 

"Alright." He exhales loudly. "Undoubtedly there are Imperial Soldiers lookin' for us. They probably know that we've landed somewhere nearby and will be combin' the area any minute now. No more time for dilly-dallyin', yes?"

"Yes, sir!" You snap a faux-military salute to him. His resolve wavers, then strengthens. 

"Um. Yes. Anyway, we'll need to leave soon. Civilization is our best hope---easier to blend in. Hopefully, I'll be able to find some allies willin' to take us in, at least for a few nights."

"Sounds like a plan!" Brightly, you get to your feet. "How about another swim?"

"No more swimmin'," he protests. "We gotta go. Now." 

"Aw." Resisting a pout, you follow him as he shakes excess water from his skin and rubs himself dry with his cape, which has become the official towel. As he's dressing, you dry off some, too, but are already wearing the only clothes you have. Smiling, you tie the cape around your shoulders (it's heavy with water weight) and bounce over to him.

"Where are we going?" you ask, tossing the cape into his arms. The fabric disappears into his sylladex. 

"There's a town not far from here," he replies, eyes on his husktop. "Coastal. Not too big, not too small." 

"Perfect!"

"Sure." He awkwardly avoids your eyes---he's been doing that a lot lately---and heads for the the sandy path that winds out of the bowl-like cove and onto the beach. There's silence and salt. You enjoy the inconsistency of sand beneath your feet, and the ocean breeze that tickles your hair. Eridan's face is a composed mask. You remember a time when he would've enjoyed all of this, too.

The beach extends away from the water for a while before it's stopped abruptly by urban development. A several-lane highway borders the end of the sand, and every so often, a motor-powered vehicle will chug smoothly past. You and your rescuer crouch in the leafy plants along the side of the road and then scurry across it. A grassy field separates the highway from the town Eridan referred to earlier. The hives are closer to shanties, and don't impress you very much. 

"Is it safe?" you whisper. The town is sleepy and dark. 

"Maybe," he whispers back. "Just stay behind me. And keep silent."

You do as he says, creeping behind him as he draws a rifle from thin air. Cool trick.

The shanties are eerily quiet---abandoned? Neither of you care to check. Instead, you travel close to the shadows of the run-down buildings and find yourselves in a town square. All of the hives seem to extend from this central point. The middle of the square is taken up largely by a statue of the Summoner, wings spread. The insults and profanity spray-painted on the statue's chest, and the fact that its horns were snapped clean off, take away from the wonder of it.

You nearly squeak in fear when you see what's waiting at the base of the statue, and if not for Eridan's hand appearing over your mouth, you would've done just that.

Highbloods. A lot of them.

They stand in rigid rows, at attention, watching their commander. The troll isn't familiar to you. He stands upon the base of the statue, a boost of height, and stares out at them. Then he speaks. 

"The fugitives are nine and a half sweeps. Seadwellers. One violet, the other fuchsia. The violet one can be culled or captured. The fuchsia one _must be apprehended and not culled_. Failure will be cause for immediate punishment. Do you understand."

One simultaneous nod, forty heads.

"Good. They're in the area---check the beaches. Don't come back until the objective is completed."

Another nod.

"Dismissed."

Eridan's arms cage your shivering frame to him, and he drags you backwards, into the space between two shanties. He tries to look comforting, anything to keep you from crying out or something similar, but just seems distraught. You swallow gasps of fear as marching feet approach. His hands smooth over your hair, but again, it's not soothing, only frantic and forced. You're going to do it. You're going to let out a noise and they'll find you two---

He catches you in something reminiscent of a bear hug, smashing your face into his chest, just as the first soldiers pass by, oblivious to the fugitives lurking in the shadows. They march in seamless formation. No heads turn to look. Slowly, as their footsteps fade, the quivering in your bones lessens and eventually dies. The salty smell of his shirt is strong in your nose.

After several minutes, his arms unfold from your ribs and you sit back against the hive. Silence.

"I think it's safe." His voice is barely audible. "Let's move---before they come back."

This is enough to get you on your feet, and you allow him to grab your hand and lead you across the now-empty square and the Summoner's ruined statue. More hives. You keep up the pace all the way until the very last shanty. The town gives way to grassy, wide, open plains. Not good for escaping, but it's the best you've got. Distantly, you see the smog of a city rebelling against the clarity of the sky.

"That's where we're going." He's still whispering. "Come on."

He runs backwards, eyes on the town's borders as the two of you leave it behind. His rifle is trained on the shadows. He's practically expecting soldiers to rush out, you bet. You just keep your eyes on the far-off city. You don't know what to expect when you get there, however. Because everything's over for you. There are only two sides of this war---you like to think you're not on either, but when the highbloods want to kill you because of your blood color and the lowbloods want to kill you because of your blood color, what's the point? You're a target wherever you go. 

"Just keep running," Eridan's labored voice calls up to you. He must be reading your mind, because that's exactly what you need. To just run and not think and get away from everything.


	9. "C'est Magnifique, Mais Ce N'est Pas la Guerre." - Troll Pierre Bosquet

Your name is TAVROS NITRAM.

The metal legs are treating you well (though you still don't think the terrifying, bloody operation was worth it). You've been practicing _walking_ for the first time in sweeps, and it's absolutely wonderful and scary and kind of painful (you fall down sometimes). Darkleer is busy preparing for the journey ahead, and has left you to your own devices. Currently you're attempting to ascend the stairs successfully, but so far, you've tumbled down them twice.

You're resting on the bottom most step, nursing a bruised elbow, when Darkleer appears at the end of the stairs and leers at you through black spectacles. "We're leaving. Come along."

You are very careful not to fall when you follow him out onto the lawn ring. The whole manor is very well-kept, manicured and slathered with highblood privileges. The two of you wait on the ring as a motor-powered vehicle comes up the drive. It's sleek and black and probably very fast. The driver steps out and opens the door for Darkleer, while you lug his belongings into the trunk of the vehicle. You're instructed to sit in the back seat and be quiet.

The driver, also a highblood, discusses matters of war with Darkleer as he drives. The windows automatically tint to deepest black and blur out any picture of the outside world. You sink into the comfortable leather seat and play your fingers along the slats in your new legs, over the bolts and ridges and the cold, steel exterior. There's a very light hissing noise when you extend your knee. They're perfect. 

You smooth the collar of your shirt down and try to get comfortable. You're forced to sit awkwardly in the middle of the bench, since your wide horns don't allow you to lean on the window or anything similar. You fold your hands on your lap and sit up straight. Darkleer mentioned that it wouldn't be a terribly long drive to the gallows.

Yes, gallows. The plans have changed: Darkleer's duties as the E%ecutor weigh out over his duties as the lead archeradicator, and the destination of this journey has been swapped out: the battlefield exchanged for an execution. You get nervous just thinking about it.

You can't help but wonder who's going to be executed. Usually, those slated for culling aren't given a public death, and if they are, Darkleer isn't present. He's only brought in on special cases. You imagine that some brave lowblood leader was captured, or maybe some kind of highblood spy. The fantasies entertain you for the rest of the ride.

"We're here," the driver announces, slowing to a stop. 

You get out, careful not to knock your horns on the door frame, and open Darkleer's door for him. The vehicle has stopped in front of an outdoor amphitheater. Rows and rows of seats spiral down into a pit where a platform has been constructed. Cold, night air hangs over the scene, and absorbs the buzz of a thousand plus highbloods, all seated in the stands. Darkleer begins to descend the steps of one of the aisles, down towards the pit.

Some highbloods jeer at you and spit when you pass, and you keep on Darkleer's heels, trying to look tough but feeling two inches tall. Someone throws a paper cup at you. Your shirt stains orange with their drink.

Miles later, you reach the pit, where the platform beckons. As you put one foot on the stairs onto the platform, Darkleer stops you. "No. Go wait by the wall."

You nod and obediently stand by the wall of the execution pit, hearing the roars of the highbloods above. You keep your eyes focused on the platform. Darkleer stands in its center. He raises one hand above his head, and the audience cheers at his arrival. He takes up his bow and knocks an arrow. There's no criminal just yet, but when they do arrive, you know exactly what will happen. Darkleer will aim. Darkleer will shoot. And Darkleer will not miss.

There's a microphone hooked up at the edge of the platform. The E%ecutor takes his place there and addresses the crowd. "I welcome you all to this event. Tonight, the rebel leader and fabled mutant the Signless will die for his crimes."

He says something else, but it's lost in the sudden volume of the crowd. As the noise dies down he continues. "This abomination has no place on the hemospectrum. Already a danger to society, he exploited his mutation and is the sole cause behind the war that plagues us now."

_"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"_

The chant sparks up and spreads through the highbloods. They want blood.

"All in due time," Darkleer promises, but his voice is as flat as ever. He isn't excited. He's never excited. "The fugitive was captured in the desert by the Grand Highblood and his subjugglators. They will be delivering the prisoner soon. As for our fair Empress, she'll be watching from her ship. She sends her blessing."

More cheers. Darkleer points wordlessly to one of the aisles, and there it is---the Grand Highblood's huge figure is silhouetted at the top of the steps. As he moves down the aisle, in his arms, a slumped body is jostled. The cloak is missing, but you recognize the leggings from old posters. The Signless. 

The Grand Highblood passes you without comment and takes his spot upon the platform. He drops the Signless carelessly on the floor and when he speaks, he doesn't need a microphone.

"I HAVE BROUGHT THE ENTERTAINMENT," he bellows. "ENJOY!"

With that, he hefts the Signless into a kneeling position and affixes oddly shaped handcuffs to his wrists. The Signless's head is down. You can't read his expression, or anything about him, really. He's blank. Defeated? 

The Grand Highblood looms in the background as Darkleer goes on. "This troll is responsible for the death of your matesprit, your moirail, your kismesis, your auspistice. He deserves the death that awaits him."

"DO IT." The Highblood whisper-shouts, and Darkleer nods, turning to face the prostrated Signless.

Darkleer's arm strains the arrow in the bow. The arrowhead trains on the Signless's chest, over his blood pusher, and you wince. You don't want to look.

Darkleer speaks. "Have you any last words, infidel?"

The Signless raises his head.

~ATH

Your name is JADE HARLEY.

"Ready to go, Bec?"

Becquerel only stares because he is a barkbeast and barkbeasts don't talk.

"I'll take that as a yes," you say brightly, patting his fluffy white fur and rechecking the contents of your sylladex. You've got a long journey ahead, and it wouldn't be ideal to forget something.

You and Bec exit your old, trusty hive and stand on the lawn ring. The hive creaks in the island wind behind you. You're going to miss it, after all these sweeps. You'll remember it just like this---well, not just like this. The smell of gasoline is too strong. 

You strike a match and let the flame claw its way down the stick, until it nearly burns your fingers, and at the last second you cast it away. It hits the front steps and immediately ignites the gas you poured all over your beloved home. The flames spread instantly, crawling up the walls, breaking windows, climbing into the house like bright, smoky burglars. You cough on the smoke but can't look away. Bec gently takes your wrist in his teeth and pulls you away, off of the weedy grass and away from your hive.

The two of you trek through a short stretch of jungle, emerging on one of the many beaches on your beautiful island. Your unimpressive escape vehicle (a tiny boat bobbing a few feet off shore) beckons. Bec leaps lithely into the vessel, while you slog through the water and untie the boat from a thick post. You heave yourself in and you're off!

That's not actually how it happens.

Rather, you take up the oars and start rowing, which means your speed is entirely unimpressive and a bit anticlimactic. Even Bec looks bored.

The ocean pretty much goes on forever. You're really cutting it close, since the sun just went down, and unless you keep up this speed you won't reach the mainland by morning and will subsequently be burned to a crisp by the hellish sun. But you won't think so negatively. You'll just enjoy the smell of the water, and the warm mass of Bec pressed against your leg. 

Of course, you have plenty to worry about. If you see any highblood ships, you're dead. This rowboat isn't exactly the best vessel for escaping attacks. Your arms are beginning to burn from effort. This is going to be a long, long ride. Hopefully Aradia is waiting for you, safe. You feel a wave of guilt at the thought of her getting hurt or killed because of you and your plans. You're not stupid---you know people are going to die if Alternia will ever be peaceful---but that doesn't mean you have to like it.

The water stretches away for a million miles. Your arms hurt.

A long ride indeed.

~ATH

Your name is EQUIUS ZAHHAK.

The archeradicators accept you back into their ranks seamlessly.

All you have to do is tell a simple lie---you were pursuing a lowblood deep into the jungle, and had to separate from the others. It's partly true. For your valiant efforts, they congratulate you, and that's that. No punishment. You did well.

You don't feel like you did well. All you can think of is the splash of maroon blood that coats your uniform, the arrow that you have clutched in your hand, the one that you stole on your way out of Kanaya Maryam's hive. The one that nearly killed Aradia Megido. You swallow and feel traces of sweat at your hairline, and your grip tightens steadily until the arrow snaps in two and falls silently to the snow. You've got splinters in your skin.

Just keep marching. You're in the back corner of the block formation, so no one notices your silent struggle. Your boots crush ice in time with everyone else. If only they knew. If only they knew that you regret this, all of this, rejoining them and almost causing a death that actually matters. But regrets are stupid things. You can do nothing with them but feel sorry.

Your captain spins on his heel and faces the block. Everyone stops in synchronization. 

"Our orders have changed," he calls. "E%ecutor Darkleer demands that all archeradicators be present for the execution of the Signless."

A murmur springs up among the soldiers. This is big news indeed. The Signless is the greatest enemy of highbloods to date, and you can just imagine what his execution will be like. Highbloods everywhere. A sick desire for death. You yourself will enjoy his death, though after the events of the last few nights, you don't think you'll be able to feel as ecstatic as the others. Aradia Megido is ruining your life.

"You are welcome to join the festivities after the execution," the captain goes on.

Festivities.

They're going to have _festivities_.

Perhaps it's your guilt manifesting itself, but you can hear _her_ voice in your head, whispering. _"That's wrong, and you know it, Equius."_

The soldier next to you notices the sweat now building on your brow, and the look of intense discomfort on your face. "Come on, Zahhak, aren't you excited?"

You open your mouth to agree, yes, you're excited, but you're tired of lying. You're confused. You don't want to see the Signless killed. For the first time in your life, you don't want to see _anyone_ killed. You just want to rest. You want to get into your recuperacoon and rest for a very long time. 

Instead of speaking, you close your mouth and nod. This is good enough for them. The block begins to move, only breaking rigid formation when trees appear on the path, or when icy puddles are planted in the ground. This is better. You would rather march mindlessly through a cold jungle than think about all of the things that are so wrong about your life, or the fact that you're madly flushed for a lowblood who hates you by now.

You need to get our of here.

~ATH

Your name is VRISKA SERKET.

Your fourth night on the flagship is also the night of Terezi's arrival.

You wake up, as usual, all tangled up in a big heap of John. You're not sure how it happens---you always go to sleep facing the wall of the shared recuperacoon---but you always wake up with your face flush against his chest and your limbs everywhere. You blush and disengage from the sloppy embrace, sliding out of the 'coon with a slight squelching noise. How embarrassing. 

You're on your way to the bath---you wouldn't want John to wake up to you covered in slime, still in your undergarments, blushing---when Trolllian beeps. And what do you know? It's Terezi.

\- - gallowsCalibrator [GC] began trolling arachnidsGrip [AG] \- -

GC: 1M H3R3!  
GC: 4R3 YOU R34DY TO B3 L1B3R4T3D 4DM1R4L  
GC: >:]  
AG: You're really a piece of work, you know that?  
AG: If anyone should 8e locked up right now, it's you.  
GC: COM3 ON S3RK3T  
GC: DONT B3 SUCH 4 DOWN3R!  
AG: It's not my fault if I'm a little 8it down.  
AG: I've 8een stuck in this room for days!  
AG: I need good news. Please tell me you've got a magic solution up your sleeve.  
AG: Well, not a magic one. We all know magic is fakey fake fake.  
GC: C4LM DOWN  
GC: 1M CONF1D3NT TH4T W3 W1LL B3 SUCC3SSFUL  
AG: We 8etter 8e!   
AG: I'm not paying you to get me killed, Pyrope.  
GC: YOUR3 NOT P4Y1NG M3 4T 4LL  
GC >:[  
AG: Oh, you're hilarious. That's a good one.  
AG: Anyway.  
AG: Could you just 8e serious for the hearing?  
GC: 1M V3RY S3R1OUS!  
AG: 8ullshit!  
AG: You're treating this like some lame RP.  
GC: NO 1M NOT  
GC: 1M TR34T1NG TH1S L1K3 PR4CT1CE FOR WH3N 1M 4 R34L L3G1SL4C3R4TOR!  
AG: Good to know I'm just a trial run for you.   
AG: Just don't do anything to fuck this up!   
AG: As painful as it is to admit this, I'm counting on you.  
GC: DONT WORRY 4BOUT 4 TH1NG!  
GC: YOULL GO FR33  
GC: TH4TS TH3 PYROP3 GU4R4NT33!  
AG: Did you really just spit a stupid slogan at me.  
GC: Y3P  
GC: 1M TH1NK1NG OF COPYR1GHT1NG TH4T  
AG: Right.  
AG: This convers8tion has progressed to levels of unimagina8le idiocy, as I expected.  
AG: Any last words 8efore I go?  
GC: NOP3! >:]  
AG: Gr8!  
AG: See you l8ter.  
GC: BY3 BY3!

\- - gallowsCalibrator [GC] ceased pestering arachnidsGrip [AG] \- - 

"Vriska?"

John's groggy voice startles you. Your clothes deficiency is making you a little subconscious, so you beeline for the hygieneblock before his head emerges from the slime. You poke your own head around the door and say innocently, "Yes?"

None the wiser, he mumbles something and sinks back into the 'coon. You breathe a sigh of relief at the close call and clean up a bit. By the time you're dressed, he's awake, and he murmurs a "good evening" as he passes you on his way to the bath. He's still half asleep.

"So, big day?" John reappears twenty minutes later, much more awake now. 

"Terezi's here," you reply, lying back on the settee. He sits down on the opposite end and puts your legs in his lap. "She's on her way to this block as we speak."

"Great!" He exhales, relieved. "It's a good thing, too. I don't think I can be cooped up in here for too much longer." 

"You're telling me." You close your eyes and throw one arm over them. Just when you're getting comfortable, a sharp rap sounds on the door. You groan.

"I've got it," John says soothingly, patting your shin and going to the door. Obviously, it's locked, but there is a small window set into the wood. He unlatches it and peers out into the hallway. 

"Let me in, let me in!" a grating voice calls. You would recognize that voice anywhere. You really hate that voice.

"Not gonna happen," you reply, shouldering John out of the way (gently). You peer through the square cut out of the door and are met with a pair of bright red eyes, a shit-eating grin, and a face as sharp as nails. "And even if I could let you in, I probably wouldn't." 

"That's no way to treat the only person standing between you and your death," she sing-songs, baring teeth. 

You sigh. You're so done with her bullshit, and it's not even ten. "Alright. Fine. What now?"

"As your counselor, I'm allowed to consult you only on matters of the trial." She moves out of view for a moment. "Move, I'm unlocking the door."

You nearly face-palm--- _she had a fucking key that whole time_ \---and step back. The cylinders in the lock click, the door opens, and Terezi Pyrope scoots inside, kicking it closed behind her. She's dressed in something reminiscent of her old FLARPing costume. God, you're screwed.

"Turn around, I have to handcuff you," she says with absolute glee, holding up the restraints.

"This is fucking ridiculous," you say through your teeth, wincing when she locks your hands behind your back and then does the same to John.

"That's the rule." She drags a chair over and sits down in front of the settee, where you and John have collapsed awkwardly. "Contact with prisoners is only allowed when they're handcuffed."

"Can we just get this over with?"

She tisks. "You're the worst client I've ever had to deal with---"

"I'm the _only_ client you've ever had to deal with."

"---but I'll manage, if only to prove that I'm the best legislacerator since Redglare herself," Terezi finishes, nose in the air. "Now, give me details. On what grounds are you being detained?"

"That motherfucking shithead Dualscar---" you begin, ready to rant. John shooshes you and restates your colorful language.

"The general accused us of treason in front of the Empress herself," he provides, nudging you when you try to intervene. "When she asked why, he went on this whole speech about how Mindfang thinks the attack on her fleet is Dualscar's doing---"

"She never even said that!"

"Quiet," John says, more forcefully. "Then he said that we were her spies, sent here to gather information on Dualscar so she could kill him or something stupid like that. There's no basis to his claims at all."

You don't know why she asked, because she's eagerly sniffing at a file in her hands that is obviously related to your case. "According to this, he does have a basis. Mindfang admitted in closed correspondence with the Condescension that she, quote, 'suspects the general is involved in the destruction of my fleet', unquote, and that, quote, 'I will get to the bottom of this', unquote. Sound familiar?"

"N-no," you say, face falling. "She never said any of this to me."

"A pity," Terezi comments. She sets the file down in her lap. "I'll find a way to get you out of this. But you'd better have that chalk, or we'll have a problem."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll give you the fucking chalk," you groan, leaning back into the chair. Dealing with Terezi Pyrope for the next few weeks or nights or whatever is going to be hell, but hey, you're not going down without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays to you all! (I'm leaving this chapter under your tree, but I swear it's from Santa).


	10. "Let Us Not be Deceived---We are Today in the Midst of a Cold War." - Troll Bernard Baruch

Your name is ROSE LALONDE.

The sewer, inevitably, runs into the ocean. 

You bring your head up for the first time in hours and breathe in as if it's your last breath; you immediately regret it, because the sewage water is still thick around you and the smell makes you gag. The current ushers you farther into the water. That's not good---it will be harder to make it back to land the farther out you go---but you're too weak and injured to honestly give two flying shits. After several minutes, the force of the water flowing from the distant sewage pipe lessens and dies, leaving you bobbing in the open waters.

Your gills are still bleeding, after all this time, and you keep your neck above the water to give them a deserved break. The effort is almost too much. You bring your left hand up from below the surface reluctantly, almost afraid to look. The pain alone has alerted you that the wound must be infected, and if you're lucky, you might not have to amputate it completely. Even bracing yourself for the worst, you still wince when you take stock of it. All of the skin on the back of your hand is gone; the purple blood and muscle is open for all to see, and a greenish pus is secreted from the edges of the wound. The bones are visible too---they're all broken.

You can't leave your hand like this. Your good hand fumbles at your sleeve, gets a grip on the soggy fabric, and rips it free. You wrap the wound. The pressure alone draws tears from your eyes, but you've gotten so far that the pain is beginning to dull. What worries you is that it's not only in your hand---the myriad of injuries you've sustained all over your person are shutting down, and as they do so, your think pan fogs over more and more. It's only a matter of time before you drop like a stone. No one troll can survive so long after what you've been through.

The shore seems very far now, but you see the lights of a coastal town, and beyond that, the swaying trees of a jungle, capped with snow. No wonder the water is so cold. You point yourself in the direction of the lights and kick weakly. It's the best you can do, because your hand screams in protest when you try to card it through the water.

And when you get to the shore? That part doesn't worry you. Your high place on the hemospectrum basically gives you the right to do whatever you want, especially to a lowblood---that is, a lowblood that isn't a rebel soldier. Hopefully you'll find one quickly and get help. If anything, you're certain to find a highblood platoon patrolling the area.

You're running out of gas by the time you hit the shoreline. It takes an alarming amount of energy just to break free from the waves and slog onto the beach, and by the time you've reached a street of brick buildings, you're close to falling over. Heavy with water, you schlepp across a row of empty parking spots and lean heavily on the first building you reach. You use the sandy brick wall as a support as you hobble to the door. 

As dictated by Imperial Law, the owner of this shop has placed a sign on the door, indicating blood color, name, and occupation. You've stumbled upon the workplace of one Kanaya Maryam, a jade-blooded tailor. Jade blood is good. If she has any sense at all, this Kanaya Maryam will be on the side of the Empress and willing to help a soldier in need.

It's your blood right, so you struggle to open the door and make it into the well-lit shop without knocking or anything similar. Your seadweller status alone is enough to get you in. At the sound of the door's opening, a female troll with slight features and carefully styled hair appears from behind a curtain and regards you with unmasked shock. 

"Are you Kanaya Maryam?" you ask, with all the authority you can manage. It isn't much. 

"Yes," she replies, with some hesitation. "And you are?"

"My name is Rose Lalonde, Lieutenant of the Empress, fourth class." You don't usually pull rank like that, but you're desperate. "I need help."

More hesitation. Of course she's a bit put-off by your arrival, and you admit, you feel bad about all the blood and salt water you're tracking on the carpet. You stare her down until she nods silently. 

"Of course."

~ATH

About an hour later, you're seated with Kanaya Maryam in her kitchenblock, drinking gratefully from some kind of herbal mixture. It's warm and pleasant on the tongue. She seems nervous towards you, which you don't fully understand. Her jade blood poses no threat to you or her. You chalk it up to the circumstance and leave it at that.

"I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt very badly," she informs you. She holds your injured hand in both of hers, fingers picking at the cloth. She treated your other wounds to the best of her ability (which was more than adequate---you were lucky enough to stumble across a medislayer) but has left the most severe injury for last. "How did this happen? It's awful."

"I had to---"

Her bright green eyes dart up to yours. "You mean you did this to yourself?"

"I had a choice." You are utterly calm as you speak. "My hand, or my life. I chose life."

She shakes her head incredulously and finishes the removal of the makeshift bandages. A sharp breath is sucked in between her mildly pointed teeth when she sees the extent of the wound. Even you wince and look away, steeling yourself for her first move.

"I'm applying an antiseptic, to treat infection and clean the wound." Her voice quivers. "It's not going to be pretty."

Her touch is light as a feather, but it still jostles your broken bones. You squeeze your eyes shut. No way are you going to let a tear out in front of her. The sting of the antiseptic is so much more than a sting---it's acid, burning up your blood. Your breathing falters. She murmurs apologies, and you focus on keeping your eyes closed and your hand still. 

After several swipes of a cotton swab, she retires the antiseptic. "That's as clean as I'll be able to make it. As for the bones . . . I'm afraid I can only set them, and hope they mend themselves. You may lose dexterity in the hand, if not all function."

"That's quite alright." That's not alright. If you're seriously, permanently injured, you won't be allowed back on the war front---and then you realize something. Your orders were to bring back the Signless's book or be culled. As far as the Empress knows, you're dead, and if you return to her, she'll have you culled. You're backed into a corner here.

"Yes, that's perfectly fine," you say, with more conviction.

She begins to ramble on in medical terms. "There are 27 bones in your hand, and by the looks of it you've broken a good majority of them. There are eight bones in the wrist, see, and you've broken all of them---what were you _doing_? You've absolutely destroyed the metacarpals---those are the five bones in the palm. The phalanges at the bottoms of your fingers and thumb are in pieces, though the phalanges at the top are in good shape. I can't even _find_ the MCP and DIP joints. . . ."

Kanaya's voice trails off. She presses a cloth to the open wound, cleaning up the last of the blood, then replaces it with an ice pack, to reduce swelling. You flinch when she sets it aside and prepares to set the bones. 

"I can't put it in a proper splint, not with your hand cut open like this, but I can set the bones right. As long as you don't move your hand for the next few weeks, it shouldn't be a problem."

"Just do it quickly, please," you request. 

Instead of speaking, she snaps on a pair of latex gloves and begins to physically _move_ the bones, rocketing pain up your nerves, all the way from the tips of your fingers to your shoulder. It takes ages. You feel like she's been rummaging around in your hand for years by the time she gingerly wraps your palm with gauze, laying it gently on the table.

"That's the best I can do. Make sure you don't move that hand, alright?" Kanaya moves out of sight, replacing her medical kit in a drawer behind you. She returns with a handful of pills. "Pain meds."

You swallow them without hesitation, keeping your left hand still on the tabletop. "Thank you. For all of this, I mean."

"It is of my caste to serve," she says, and it sounds rehearsed.

~ATH

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS.

The safe hive is on the invisible line where the desert blends into a more urban area. The town you, Dave, and the Ψiioniic arrive in is small enough to make you nervous about discovery, but big enough to give you the security of anonymity. It's very early in the evening when the Ψiioniic ushers you up the front steps of a modest hive and unlocks the door. The inside is dusty, smelling strongly of mold, and clearly uninhabited.

He shuts the door silently. "This is it, boys. Your new home."

"Not much to look at," Dave comments, peering at the dimly lit livingblock over the tops of his shades. His irises match yours.

The Ψiioniic says something, but you don't pay attention. The only light source is a dirty window. The smeared moonlight illuminates sheet-covered furniture, a carpet of dust, and a hallway tunneling into darkness. You cautiously keep one hand on the wall and follow the corridor. The bumps of door frames occasionally slide under your palm. Behind you, your companions follow, speaking quietly. You reach the end of the hall. There's nothing else left.

"Is this it?" you ask, still facing the dead end that's almost too dark to see.

"There's a kitchenblock on the other side of the livingblock," the Ψiioniic explains. "But yes, this is it."

You nod silently. An awkward stillness falls over the corridor. The Ψiioniic shifts, clears his throat. He needs to leave soon. The Signless doesn't have much time left.

"I'm sorry, but I can't linger." He takes a step backwards. "There's much to do. If all goes well, I'll be back in a couple nights."

"And if all doesn't go well?" Dave's back is to you as he faces the Ψiioniic.

He swallows audibly. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

And then he's gone. 

There's no electricity in the hive. Dave goes along lighting candles in the livingblock, kitchenblock, the only hygieneblock, and the two respiteblocks. You sit on the ghost of a sofa and pull your collar up over your nose. The dust is strong, but it would be too dangerous to open a window. When he's finished, Dave drops into a sheet-covered armchair, still playing with his lighter.

You don't want to talk to him. You have a strong desire to lock yourself in one of the respiteblocks and ignore him until you're free to leave, whenever that time comes. But at the same time, you enjoy his company---no, that's not the right word. Rather, you value the presence of another troll in this shell of a hive. Frustrated, you lean over and close the curtains, to avoid anyone seeing the lit candles through the glass.

"Now what?" Dave Strider wants to know.

"Who gives a shit?" Your trademark scowl finds its way onto your brow. "We waste away here until they come back. Or we die. I don't know."

He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and sighs. "Whatever. I'm used to being stuck in a hive, anyway."

"Lucky you," you mutter. "This is all just a day in the life for you, huh? Look at me, I'm the biggest douche-dick in the world, and I have no problem slowly vegetating while the rest of the world spins on in all its fucked-up, bloody, war-ridden glory---"

Your rant is interrupted by the sound of something smacking the window. You both freeze---have highbloods found you already?---and sit in absolute stillness for several seconds. When you don't hear any footsteps, or any noise at all, you get to your feet silently and pinch the very edge of the curtain between two fingers. Dave appears at your shoulder and nods.

You peel the stained fabric back with minute precision and are confronted with a newspaper.

The publication must have been slapped to the window by the wind, stuck there by the ink and water running down its surface. Dave scoffs and elbows you out of the way. False alarm. He squints, moves his shades out of the way, but the headline is illegible. His fingers work at the window's latch.

"What are you doing?" you hiss, worked up by the scare. "Do you want someone to see us, you complete fucking moron?"

"Man, chill the fuck out." He gets the window open just enough to stick one arm through, grip the sopping newspaper, and reel it back into the hive. He redoes the latch and shuts the curtains, then holds the paper up triumphantly. "Don't you wanna se what's going on out there?"

"You're going to get us lynched," is your weak reply. You're too tired to argue. Instead, you flop down on the couch again, and he sits with the newspaper open to the main article, scanning it before passing it to you. It's hard to read, but you get the gist.

**EXECUTION OF THE SIGNLESS SCHEDULED FOR LATER TONIGHT---HEADED BY E%ECUTOR DARKLEER, APPEARANCE BY THE GRAND HIGHBLOOD.**

After sweeps of searching, the fabled Signless himself has been captured in the northern desert by the Grand Highblood's forces. The mutant, responsible for the Alternian Civil War that currently ravages our homeland, was apprehended and brought to the Gerren Amphitheater, just outside the Capital City. The Empress is confident that the Signless's death will ensure highblood victory . . .

You stop reading, bringing your head up to meet Dave's eyes. "This is going on tonight."

"Yep."

You crumple up the newspaper and shoot it at the wall. "Well. We're fucked."

"We're not. The Signless isn't, either," he says cryptically. "Because we're going to rescue him."

"You're out of your mind!"

He shakes his head. "We're going after him."

"No we're not!" You can't believe him. "You really do want to get us killed, don't you? Yeah, that's a great plan, Strider. Let's just waltz up to the _Capital City_ , into an amphitheater packed with highbloods, and expect to live. You're a genius. Fucking brilliant."

Dave's already on his feet, blowing out candles. "Fuck it. If you're not going, I'll go myself. But you want to know something? I lived with the troll who's about to be murdered for nine sweeps---and if anyone deserves to die, it sure as hell isn't him."

You, for once, have nothing to say. He tries the door; it's locked from the outside, too. He mutters something about a back door and disappears into the kitchenblock. You should tackle him, knock him out now, before he blows your hiding place. You get woodenly to your feet and follow him. He's shouldering the door, once, twice, three times. On the fourth hit it blows outward on its hinges. 

Go after him already.

He looks at you, expecting you to speak, but instead you shove past him, into the yard behind the hive. "Well? You coming?"

His eyebrows shoot sky-high. "You know it."

~ATH

Your name is FEFERI PEIXES.

Dumpster-diving is a very misleading term.

When Eridan tells you that that will be your only method of survival in this grand and marvelous city, you only hear "diving" and picture yourself arcing gracefully through the air, only to hit the water at a perfect slant. 

There is no water in dumpster-diving.

"Here," Eridan beckons. This particular alleyway is dark, untouched by the streetlamps, and litter-heavy. You hover in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, finally realizing what dumpster-diving is all about. The sound of trolls passing obliviously on the street spooks you closer to him.

He taps the side of a monstrous green dumpster. "Hope you're hungry, Fef."

You pinch your nose and make a face. The stench emanating from the dumpster is incredibly strong. "What do you plan on doing with _that_?"

"Findin' a meal, a' course," he clarifies. He doesn't look all that eager to be scrounging around in the trash---he's the most pompous guy you know---but becoming a fugitive has definitely knocked him off of his high horse. "Stand watch while I look, will you?"

You nod and turn towards the alley's entrance, where unassuming trolls pass by now and then. If they notice the two dirty trolls searching for food in the shadows, they don't seem to care. Eridan climbs onto a dross coffer and then onto the lip of the dumpster. You really hope the waste collection drones aren't scheduled for pickup today.

"Ugh," he moans, rooting around in the dumpster. "This is fuckin' disgustin'. Cod, why did I do this. . . ."

It takes him approximately three minutes to find a take-out box that looks promising. The smell is still atrocious, but the food inside still looks relatively edible, and so he hits the ground again and proffers the meal. 

"Best I can do for now," he says, apologetically. "Shall we?"

"I suppose," you agree, regarding the food the way you would regard an extremely ugly cuttlefish.

You sit in the shadow of the dumpster and hold your breath. The smells are irrevocably revolting, but what can you do? You want to survive, and it's been a while since you've eaten. 

"Cheers." He winces and takes the first bite, debates, then nods for you to do the same.

All in all, it's one of the worst experiences of your new-found freedom.

He discards the box where he got it and helps you to your feet when everything is said and done. Your stomach is miraculously calmed, but you feel dirty and a bit sick. He looks a little worse for the wear, too.

"Come on," he mumbles, worn out. "Let's get out of here."

Obviously, you don't go through the street; you follow the alley to its back end and meet a chain-link fence. Scaling it is easy enough. On the opposite side, the back sides of several buildings greet you. There's no one around. You and Eridan try to look casual as you head across the asphalt, into the alley opposite the one you came from. Alleys are your new best friend.

"Sun will be out soon," he estimates, eyes on the graying sky. The darkness is lifting. "Let's stop here."

Protection from the sun's rays comes in the form of an abandoned vehicle. The wheels have been stripped from it, but it's been propped up against the wall of the alley. You wriggle underneath it, glad that the only hazard is a puddle of broken glass which you sweep easily out of the way, and wait for Eridan. He drags a couple of black garbage bags over and then slides under the skeleton of a vehicle on his belly. Once he's situated, he reaches out and aligns the bags along the side of the automobile, making it difficult to see the two of you from any angle.

Now for the quiet. You curl your knees up, terrified at the thought of sunlight creeping under the vehicle somehow while you sleep, and rest your head on your arm. Eridan rolls onto his side and faces you. His glasses have a web of cracks in the corner of one lens.

"You okay?" he asks. 

"Yeah."

You're tired, but also afraid of sleep. You and him have only spent one night in the city; last night, you were lucky enough to find a shed outside of a park to rest in, but the threat of being discovered kept you from returning. 

"Here."

He must know that you're cold, bare arms shivering slightly, and struggles to pass you his cape in the confined space. You whisper a thank you and wrap yourself in the purple fabric. Something strikes you, so you speak.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

He was just drifting off, so his eyes flash open at your words. "Huh?"

"I dumped you." Your voice wavers. "I said that you were a jerk, and threw you out of my pale quadrant. I was rude and spiteful. And here you are, saving my life."

"We were just kids," he says dismissively. But he looks like he's thought about this himself.

"I wouldn't have done it, in your position," you admit. "I wouldn't have saved me."

He shifts uncomfortably. "It's nothin', Fef. Go to sleep."

You know he's not telling you something, and your mind plays with conclusions. Maybe he still wants to be pale. Maybe he's still stuck in diamonds with you, after all these sweeps. But maybe, just maybe, it's something more. You wonder if he's flushed for you. It would make sense---he'd always been very jealous, which is part of the reason why you ended your moiraillegiance in the first place. Your head is starting to hurt just thinking about it.

"Good morning, Eridan."

"Mornin', Fef."

The smell of motor oil lulls you to sleep.

~ATH

Your name is SOLLUX CAPTOR.

It's a pretty run-of-the-mill scan. You set the parameters of your software to analyze only the moon base you're currently stationed on, not expecting to find anything useful. Your scanner immediately cracks every firewall on this godforsaken base and practically hands you information on a platter. But what's this? Something's thwarting your software. A message flares back at you---a certain database is completely blocking the scan. 

Finally, a challenge.

Twenty minutes later, you're attacking the firewall with every virus, hack, and code you've got, and end up with little to show for it. Fortunately, you've managed to trace the source of the son of a bitch. It's somewhere in the restricted sector, pretty deep in the base. You don't have clearance to be in there---but the lengths that someone went to to keep it hidden make this top priority. 

Time for a field trip. You've been pretty comfortable in your terminal for a couple nights now, but you can't stay locked in here forever if you want to get anything done. You make sure your contacts are in place and then drop your glasses back over your eyes. Now or never.

In the hallway, you meet no one; in the elevator, you nod to a young technician who's preoccupied with his palmtop. He steps out before you do. The elevator tunnels lower into the base, drilling into the moon itself. That's troublesome. You don't like the looks of this at all.

The absence of guards helps your nerves. The elevator opens onto a bland metal fluorescent-lit hallway, which you walk along with some trepidation. The walls are bare. At the end of the corridor, an immense iron door bars your way. A keypad to its left catches your eye. This is what kept you out, by the looks of it---and you're about to hack the fuck out of it. 

You unscrew the metal cover---so far so good. The circuitry is pretty impressive, but you've come prepared (you are a spy, after all). You slip one of your own inventions out of your pocket. The tiny metal chip serves as a jammer, stopping all function in any device you plug it to. You affix the jammer onto the circuit board and step back. The circuit flickers with electricity as the current is redirected, and the electric lock on the door fails.

It takes all of your muscle strength to pull the door open, so much so that you need to lean on the door frame when you're done. The block beyond is freezing and black as pitch. You pull a flashlight from your belt and click it on, sliding the beam around. At first nothing makes sense. Then, you understand. You stumble back and fall on your ass in the doorway.

When the war began, it was common knowledge that the highbloods would often perform experiments on nonconsenting lowbloods. You knew. Everyone knew. But eventually, the rumors were buried under the reports from the battle field. You admit, you forgot about the horrifying stories people told. Now? Now, you're starting to remember.

The one that everyone and their lusus knew was about a genetic mutation that turned trolls into hulking monsters, stronger and dumber than ever. Some people said they were ten feet tall. Fear was at its peak. When none of the genetically altered trolls showed up in the war, the rumor, like all the others, died off.

Looks like the rumor is true.

You get to your feet on shaking knees, and for the first time in you don't know how long, yellow beads of sweat drip down your temples. You take a few staggering steps into the room. Nothing jumps at you. No alarms blare. You swing the beam to the left, startled by sudden movement; it's just meat, hanging from a hook, and you hope to god that it isn't troll meat. 

The feature of the block that keeps pulling your eyes is also hanging from a hook. It looks vaguely like a troll, if you squint, but it simply can't be. It really _is_ ten feet tall. Chains circle its barrel-like torso, and its muscles are so thick you can't wrap your head around it. The thing is bald, but its horns are still there, with cracks running up their lengths like footpaths. It has wounds here and there---lacerations all over one arm, bruises on its thighs, brown blood _(could this really have been a brown blood once?)_ seeping from its nostrils.

Slowly, you pan the beam of light up to the thing's eyes. God bless, they're closed. You almost move on. 

Until they open.

The movement is so quick that you nearly drop the flashlight, swearing loudly as you flounder to pin the beam back on the monster. You almost drop the flashlight a second time when you train on its eyes again. The sockets are empty, eyeballs gouged out. It can't see anything. No, the real threat is in its nostrils, flared wide as it identifies you. As soon as it catches your scent it begins to thrash, mouth open wide in a silent, broken-toothed scream.

Despite this, you still take two forced steps to the side and turn the beam past the wildly swinging monster, and you are not surprised at all when you see a hundred more of the slumbering giants hanging behind it. 

You're done here. This is so much worse than you ever could have imagined. You slip in a slick of blood on your way out, wheel to the side, rocket through the open door. The adrenaline assists in your struggle to get it closed. Your hands are shaking so bad that you can barely remove the jammer and replace the circuit board's cover, but you get it done and try to compose yourself before jabbing the elevator button.

You have to wipe all the sweat off on your shirt and button up your jacket to hide the telltale yellow smears. Once you're back to your usual level of composure, you make it all the way back to your terminal before throwing up in the dross coffer. You're just glad you held it in up to here.

Shaking, you throw yourself into your desk chair and send a message to all of your lowblood contacts. It's dangerous, but you're desperate. Someone needs to know about what you saw. If you're discovered and killed, so be it. But someone has to know.

"Why the fuck aren't they replying?" you hiss-whisper to yourself. Great. Now you're talking to yourself. Grinding the heel of your palm into your forehead, you wait impatiently for a response. You get none. The spy network has gone dark.

You can't think of any explanation, no matter how far you reach with your mind.

"What the hell ith going on?"


	11. "War Does Not Determine Who is Right---Only Who is Left." - Troll Bertrand Russel

Your name is VRISKA SERKET.

John's asleep; you're ready to follow suit. You shrug out of your shirt and throw it over the back of a chair. After a day of dealing with Terezi, you're eager for a numbing dip into some sopor. Your husktop's inane beeping interrupts your beeline for the recuperacoon.

Oh, _fuck_. It's Mindfang. Of course she wants to speak to you, but that doesn't mean you feel the same. You accept the request for a video chat and adjust the angle of the webcam to your face---it would be kind of awkward for her to see you standing in a bra and underwear.

Her expression makes you wince. She looks pissed, and you can distinctly hear her razor-sharp nails drumming somewhere off-camera. "Well?"

"Well, what?" You've got a thing for sass.

"Don't give me that tone," she snaps, all eight pupils boring into yours. "The trial. Your little legislacerator. What of it?"

"The trial is in two nights, and my 'little legislacerator' says she has it covered," you report.

"Good." She leans back, and her face is thrown into shadow. "Dualscar will pay for this, Spiderling. He should know better than to cross me."

Something tugs at your memory. "The Empress said something at the conference about you. She 'won't stand for anymore of your games' or something. What was _that_ all about?"

A muscle twitches in her cheek. "More of Dualscar's machinations, of course. I predict he's doing everything in his power to usurp me. This whole trial is just a ploy to turn people against me. The loss of the fleet was an immensely convenient time for him to begin his plans---almost too convenient."

"Wait, you think he's the one behind the attack?" 

"It's not as far-fetched as you'd think," she murmurs, almost to herself. "Our rivalry is a fierce one. But he has to have some deeper motive." 

"What do you want me to do?" you ask, mind racing with the implications of her words. 

"Nothing," she commands. "Let the legislacerator do her work and win the trial. I'll handle Dualscar myself."

"And? What is she doesn't win?"

Her eyes are cold. "Then it was a pleasure serving with you, Admiral."

CONNECTION LOST

You slowly close the lid of the husktop and stand. Those aren't the most pleasant parting words, especially to go to sleep to. The sopor isn't as sweet as it would have been before that conversation. You stare at the ceiling and fold your hands over your stomach, not entirely eager to think, but finding yourself unable to sleep. John snores lightly on your left.

Your think pan plays with the idea of Terezi losing the trial. It's a very strong possibility, not that you have any other options. You'll both be culled. Maybe Terezi, too, just for representing you. But what about after that? No one would trust Mindfang, the woman whose diplomats were alleged lowblood spies. She'd be ruined. And then Dualscar would be free to do whatever he wanted. 

No, you simply can't lose this one. Too much is at stake. 

Restless, you roll onto your side and stare at John's profile. He's blissfully asleep. His messy hair sways on the surface of the slime, and his mouth is slightly open. 

He must have sensed your eyes on him---there's an old wive's tale that claims moirails can do that, though you never believed it---because they blink open. He turns his head and struggles to focus on you. "Something wrong?"

"John."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to die."

He swallows audibly. The sleepiness falls off of his features, revealing a hard, worried expression. His eyebrows have a deep crease between them when he lies to you. "We'll be fine."

"You can't _know_ that." You prop yourself up on your elbow, searching his face for something comforting and finding nothing. 

"I can pretend," he says, but he doesn't have a lighthearted smile to match the hopeful words. His face looks wrong without a toothy grin. "Can't you?"

"I don't like pretending," you tell him.

He just shakes his head and throws his arm lazily around you. You're both too covered in sopor slime for the movement to be anything but awkward, but once you settle down with your face pressed into his shoulder you appreciate the gesture. He mumbles a final sentiment.

"Now shut up and go to sleep."

He always knows just what to say.

~ATH

Your name is DAVE STRIDER.

You give Karkat a pair of emergency shades to hide his eyes, since they're a beautiful shade of Get You Killed In A Second Crimson, and skirt around the edge of the house to the front. It's your worst nightmare. The streets are flooded with the highbloods that live in this area, all of them moving in seemingly the same direction. You hesitantly step off the ring and onto the sidewalk---this is so fucking dangerous, to be out here---but no one seems to care.

A little troll, probably fresh out of grubhood, bumps into your legs. He cranes his neck to look up at you, then comments, "Nice glasses, mister. Are you going to take them off when they kill the Signless? You might see better."

You're about to kick that little shit clear into the desert, but Karkat's hand grips your shoulder and his voice grates past your ear. "You bet, kid. Now scram."

Karkat yanks you back towards the safe hive. "So. We know where we're going, at least."

"Yep," you mutter, glancing at the river of trolls heading down the street. "Just follow the people."

"This is fucking ridiculous." He has to stand on tiptoe to see over your shoulder. "We're going to get caught."

You shake your head. "No way. All of these sons of bitches are way too happy about this. They won't give two shits about us, and if they do, they'll be too busy getting ready for some quality executing to do anything about it."

"I hope you're right," he says, nudging you back onto the sidewalk with him.

None of the other trolls making the commute react at all, so you and Karkat walk shoulder to shoulder, trying not to look conspicuous and probably failing. The atmosphere is buoyant with the highbloods' elation. Your stony silence might be a tip-off to them, but no one stops you, and one guy even throws you a beer. The motherfucker is dragging a cooler behind him. 

You want to scream.

They don't care that the Signless meant a lot to you and countless other trolls; they just want to see him murdered. It doesn't matter how many people relied on him, or looked up to him, not when he had mutant blood to spill. You fantasize about taking your sword and chopping some of these assholes to pieces as you walk.-

"We're reaching the city limits," Karkat warns, low enough for only your ears. 

Sure enough, the road breaks free of the town up ahead, continuing through weedy fields as far as the eye can see. You feel your shoulders droop. "Man, how far is this shit anyway?"

He shrugs, and the two of you fall into resigned silence. You just want to get there already. Remaining incognito is especially hard when some dickheads dressed in Signless costumes keep pantomiming their deaths as they walk. This is going to be a long, long walk. For once, Karkat isn't the one losing his cool.

"Just ignore them," he growls to you. "We'll be there in no time. Think of something good to pass the time."

You don't have all that many good memories, but you don't have all that many bad ones, either. You guess you've had a pretty lukewarm existence. Stuck in a hive for nine sweeps, chatting with random people, watching viral videos, reading a few pornos when you hit that certain age. Your night to night activities never really invoked any strong feelings in you.

Your best memories are probably of the night sky from a secret window, which is pretty pathetic, now that you think about it.

You think of your Internet friends instead. John, your best friend who you haven't spoken to since before the war. Rose, another highblood that you've lost connection with. Really, the only person you've actually kept up with is Jade Harley, but that's a whole other ballgame.

"What about you?" You meet Karkat's shades with your own. "Got any rainbows in that head of yours?"

"My life sucks," he says, with complete honesty. "Always has, always will."

"Same."

~ATH

By the time the amphitheater comes into view, you and Karkat have already drifted to the very back of the crowd. This part of the plan will take major stealth. At every entrance, a guard performs a standard blood sampling test---a pinprick on the palm, to prove that the troll is of pure blood. You almost laugh at the reaction you two would receive if you were stupid enough to try it.

"Now what?" Karkat, ever the pessimist, hisses. "What's the next step in your genius plan, Point Dexter?"

"Fuck, fuck, lemme think . . . ," you stall, scanning the massive stone walls of the amphitheater. Something catches your eye. "There. See that side entrance? With that loading crew?"

"You're crazy. There's got to be at least eight of those nooksuckers standing around."

"They're heading inside," you point out. Sure enough, the uniformed members of the loading crew heft boxes into their arms and disappear through the maintenance door. The truck that was stalling in front of it roared to life and chugged away. 

The line between you and the blood sampling test is thinning. Karkat is getting anxious, tugging the corner of your sleeve. "We've got to go now. What are you waiting for, idiot, let's move!"

"Wait for it. . . ." Sure enough, as she does every four trolls, the official performing the blood test stops and bends down to retrieve a new syringe from the box at her feet. "Now."

You grab Karkat's arm and beeline for the service doors, crossing some twenty yards of totally open parking lot before making it to the maintenance door. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY is stenciled over the door. 

"Hold up." You peek around the edge of the door and see a dimly lit back area, boxes stacked here and there. No sign of the crew. "Come on. Move it."

The both of you dart inside and flatten yourselves behind a pyramid of cardboard boxes. Footsteps fade in and out; occasionally, a gruff voice will comment about the weather or the war. It's always about the war these days. When you think the coast is clear, you hook your hand in Karkat's collar and drag him to an arch-shaped doorway at the end of the room. It's marked with a sign that reads, "Pit Entrance." Bingo.

You hide in the shadow of the archway and edge forward. The sand of the pit and one corner of the executing platform are visible from here. Karkat's hand holds you back when you nearly lurch forward, but now you're starting to hear what they're saying.

"Have you any last words, infidel?"

"Let me go." You try to twist out of Karkat's grip. "They're going to kill him _right now_ , let _go_!" 

"No, asswipe, you're going to do this with at least a _trace_ of premeditation," Karkat commands. "Since we're going to die anyway, do you have some kind of distraction?"

Wordlessly, you extract your secret weapon from your sylladex and hold it up for Karkat to see. He raises an eyebrow. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's a bomb, genius."

"Fucking hell! How did you _get_ this?"

"Made it." You heft the sack of gasoline-soaked explosives. "Good blast radius, too. All I have to do is rip off this handy-dandy strip here, to ignite the fuse, then toss it and run."

"We're so dead."

"Come on, Vantas," you deadpan, pinching the strip between two fingers. "I've got a little life left in me."

Just as you throw the bomb into the pit, the Summoner and thirty thousand lowbloods surge over the far wall of the amphitheater, screaming rage and waving weapons. 

Yep. This just gets better and better.

~ATH

Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA.

You don't actually hop on a wild hoofbeast and ride majestically into the desert---that would be motherfucking stupid---and end up walking. Several hours into your boring ass quest, you're already fuck-deep in barren sand with no signs of your target to speak of. This is ridiculous. You're never going to find this son of a bitch out here.

Nevertheless, you press on, dragging your clubs through the sand. You stop abruptly when you see a disturbance in the pristine landscape---a scrap of cloth. You bend down, run your fingers over the scrap, then stand. Farther on, you see a scattering of footprints with no apparent source. Whoever was here probably wanted to cover their tracks---and did a shit job of it. 

Now pointed in the right direction, you start off with renewed hope, and soon enough, you see it: smoke. It's hard to see but definitely there. Where there's smoke, there's a fire. And where there's a fire, there are bitches that need killing. You smirk---the dry face paint cracks a little at the corners of your mouth---and slink forward, pace quickened with excitement.

The lowbloods you find have constructed patchy, barely-counting-as-shelter tents, grouped around a weak fire. A few of them sit comfortably before the flames. Occasionally, one will emerge from a tent, or another will turn in for the day. They're completely unsuspecting, which is fine with you. 

Belly to the sand, you crawl towards the circle of orange light they're gathered around, wondering how best to attack. The nearest one---some bitch---warms her hands by the fire. The douche bag next to her hums some folk song under his breath. They're not far, and their backs are to you. Couldn't be easier.

Grunting, you spring to your feet and heft a club in one hand. It crashes into the back of the female's skull before she has any idea of what's happening. The male, on the other hand, jumps back and roars, "AMBUSH!" 

You roll your eyes, grab the troll's throat, and shove the butt of one club into his tattletale mouth. His teeth break audibly _(click click click)_ and spurts of blood fill in the cracks. You drop the gagging troll to the sand and wipe blood and saliva from your club, grinning again when more lowbloods pop out of the handful of tents, now with weapons. Fun.

An olive blood with a spear charges you. You sidestep, hooking your foot around his ankle and bringing him to the ground in the same motion. Snatching the spear from his hand, you brace your foot on his chest and drive it through his ribs. He screams until the blood bubbles in his throat and muffles the noise. 

Two of them try to double-team you. They both wield short swords. Unimpressed, you kick sand into the face of one, stopping him in his tracks, and jab the other in the jaw with your fist. You drop the clubs and grip their heads, one in each hand, then bring their skulls together in the way that one would clap their hands, over and over. By the time you let their bodies fall, you can't even tell whose blood is whose.

One more brave rebel appears, a shotgun in his hands. He shoots. He's shaking so bad that the blast misses completely, and you rip the heated barrel from his sweaty fingers and bash it over his forehead. You try to pull it back for another hit, but it's lodged itself into his skull, his blood like glue.

The last one tries to run, and a vicious chuckle falls from your lips. There's no where to run out here. The frightened troll falls on his face, tries to scramble away in the sand; too late. You're already there. You flip him over with a well-aimed kick and kneel over him. You get your hands around his neck, squeezing hard enough to keep him down but not hard enough to kill him. His terrified eyes search yours for mercy.

"Mutant blooded troll," you whisper, leaning close to his face. "Sunglasses. Where the fuck is he?"

"I don't know who you're talking about---"

"DON'T FUCKING LIE TO ME." 

That's enough to scare him into compliance. "He w-was traveling with the main infantry, but our group s-split off to patrol the desert."

"Where did they go?" 

He must know that he's going to die, because he gives up. You see the fight leave his eyes and if that's not the best feeling in the whole damn world then you don't know what is. "The execution of the Signless."

Time to get moving. You grab his chin and push his head back into the sand, exposing his throat, then reach for a fallen blade sticking out of the sand. He doesn't even struggle when it cleaves straight through his jugular. The fine yellow mist is cool on your face and neck. He chokes, twitches, but you've already twisted the knife around, buried it in the sand, and set off again, leaving the carnage of the camp in your wake.

The execution, huh? You'd better pick up the pace, then. Wouldn't want to miss the event of the sweep.

~ATH

Your name is JADE HARLEY.

"Aradia . . . ?"

You've been stumbling around in the snow-capped jungle for some time now. Bec, nose to the ground, loops around the trees, Aradia Megido's scent in his head. You check your coordinates again---according to your palmtop, you're right on top of where she's supposed to be. But the maroon blood is nowhere in sight.

"I'm here."

Bec's ears stick flat to the sides of his head. His gaze whips back and forth, searching for the quiet voice, but for once, you're way ahead of him. You smile and beam at the trees above you. Sure enough, a wild girl sits in the branches, lidded maroon eyes watching your movements.

"Hiya!" You wave, then remember how stupid that looks and lock your hands at your sides, scribbling seriousness over your features. "I'm GG. Well, Jade. Jade Harley."

"Nice to meet you." She climbs agilely down to the snow, brushing flakes of bark from her clothes. "I've scouted the area. It's safe. Would you like to discuss our mission now?"

"Sure!" You're glad that she's focused, though she seems distant. "Bec will watch out for us."

Bec prowls the circumference of an invisible circle, passing in and out of your vision as you speak. "The flagship isn't far. There's a shuttle station nearby---the hard part is going to be stowing away on one, and then when we board, it's going to be tough getting around without being seen. And then it's going to be _really_ hard to get to the Condescension's store rooms . . . Oh jeez, I'm not scaring you off, am I?"

"Not at all." She's genuine. "Are we off?"

"Yes ma'am!"

~ATH

The shuttle station is an open lot, surrounded by a chain-link fence and a smattering of guards. You and Aradia have to circle the perimeter twice before you spot a hole in the fence. Bec wriggles under first, padding low to the ground and then to the nearest shuttle, belly-crawling underneath it seamlessly. Aradia watches your back while you squirm through and huddle next to the shuttle Bec picked out.

Aradia is under the fence and at your side in seconds---you can tell that she's a trained soldier from her physical agility alone. When she kneels next to you, she hugs herself with one arm and takes a shuddering breath.

"What's wrong?" you breathe, terrified of an unseen guard discovering you. 

"I'm wounded," she pants. "But it's nothing. Let's keep moving."

Bec, still in the lead, darts out from under the shuttle and becomes nothing more than a white blur, weaving between the idle crafts so fast that you and Aradia almost lose him. There are a few close calls with the guards---they nearly spot you around the edge of a shuttle---but Bec guides you to the center of the lot safely. For the first time, you notice one with its engine running. Bec jerks his head towards it.

"How do you know that's the one?" Aradia whispers. 

"Sollux hacked the launch schedule for me," you reply, pointing to the ID number stenciled on the side of the shuttle. "This is the one that's heading for the flagship."

"If you say so."

You dig your lock-picking set out of your sylladex and have Aradia and Bec keep watch while you work. Six jostled cylinders later, the trunk pops open. You climb halfway into the interior of the shuttle and smile at Aradia's mildly impressed expression. "What? Never seen a girl pick a lock before?"

She shrugs and heaves herself into the back of the shuttle. Bec slinks away, disappearing into the shadows. 

"Isn't he coming along?" she inquires, reaching up to close the trunk.

"No. He's a smart dog, but he's no use on a spaceship."

She nods. The trunk closes, and the two of you are thrown into darkness. You swap the lock-picking set for a canvas blanket and settle down, tossing it unceremoniously over you and your partner. 

"Now what?"

"Now we wait."

Several minutes later, the engine rumbles and the shuttle begins to lift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Happy New Year to you all :]


	12. "The World's at War with Tyrants---Shall I Crouch?" - Troll George Gordon Noel Byron

Your name is JOHN EGBERT.

The guard that comes to your block that night scares you shitless.

No one knows when the trial will be but Terezi, who's sworn to secrecy. You and Vriska have been left to wonder, alone for hours on end, and all sorts of terrifying realities come to mind. Soldiers killing you before the trial. Dualscar ending you himself. The Condesce. The imperial uniform is enough to raise hairs on the back of your neck, and when he unlocks the door and stands menacingly on the threshold, your stomach sinks.

The guard nods toward the hallway. "Johonn Egbert. You're coming with me."

"What?" As you speak, Vriska's hand tightens on your arm like a vise. "Why?"

"You're being released. You've been declared innocent of any charges against you, and are ordered to leave the ship to prevent any tampering with the proceedings."

"And---and what about me?" But you and Vriska both know the answer to that, even when she says it, even before he replies. 

"You're not going anywhere," the guard says gruffly. "I'll give you a few minutes to pack your things."

He backs into the hallway and shuts the door. You and Vriska sit in stunned silence, unable to even begin to comprehend the implications of his words. Slowly, you thaw out and get shakily to your feet. Her hand is still on your arm, tethering you to her. A light tug sets you free. Numbly, you pack everything you brought, except for a few belongings that you leave for her.

Because you're not going to be around, you might as well give her the next best thing.

You're ready to go, but you can't bring yourself to go outside---not without a proper goodbye. Her voice taps you on the shoulder. "John."

It's soft and scared and vulnerable, which is so out of character that you're almost afraid to look. Her wide eyes find yours when you turn around. 

"Don't leave me here."

You carefully set your suitcase down beside the door, knowing that you have a few minutes to go before the guard gets impatient. "I have to go. Don't worry---I'll see you soon, okay?" 

Her face regains some of its usual bravado---a good thing---and she passes you, one hand on the door, ready to throw it open. She doesn't. You spin her around with one hand and give her a hug (something that, under different circumstances, she would have despised). "I promise."

"What if I never see you again?" Her mouth moves against your shoulder. 

"Not gonna happen." You would've been content to stay that way, but the guard's hand comes down on the door, followed by a demand for you to hurry up.

You reluctantly disengage from the embrace, though your hand still remains in a vise around hers. Your free hand grips your suitcase. The guard barks a warning. You wince, because sooner rather than later you're going to have to let go of her fingers and leave---maybe forever, depending on the outcome of the trial. 

She slides her hand out of yours and lets it fall to her side. "Go on, John. I'll see you on the outside. Right?"

"Right."

You don't want to draw this out any further, but you can't stop yourself from holding her jaw with your recently freed hand and kissing her cheek. The sentiment is more commonly associated with the flushed quadrant than the pale one, and you're both surprised when you pull away. She blinks. She reaches over and opens the door for you. You exit.

The guard escorts you back to where you came from---the bay beneath the ship. A shuttle is waiting. An usher makes sure you're seated comfortably, stows your bag away, and then the shuttle is departing almost instantly. They really want to get rid of you. 

You wonder what you're going to do when you get to Alternia. The smartest option would be to see Mindfang, but you've recently begun to blame the Marquise for all of your troubles, and the thought is highly unpleasant. Maybe you can visit someone. Find a hotel or something. It's sad, but you really have nowhere to go, and nothing to do, without Vriska.

With the segregation between high and lowbloods, hundreds of moirails were split up without warning; you never thought it would happen to you. You always thought you were safe---young, blue blooded, naive. Stupid of you. By the time the shuttle drops you at the station with your luggage, you're just about out of fight. It takes a lot of energy to ask an attendant which way Dualscar's port is.

The walk isn't long, but it's still tiresome and you're so burnt out. You just want to take a nap.

Distantly, across the greying waves, the last Gamblignant ship bobs gently on the waves.

~ATH

Your name is TAVROS NITRAM.

"Have you any last words, infidel?"

Darkleer's promise of death, and the way he stands with the bow, cut it for you. You cover your eyes, already squeamish. You don't want to watch this. The fatal _thwack_ of the arrow hitting its mark has yet to come. Instead, the oddest noise reaches your ears---little, separate thuds, so soft that you can barely make them out over the roaring crowd. You let your hands fall from your face and look up, past the rows upon rows of spectators, to the top of the wall. 

There are several seconds where the thuds disappear, and then the Summoner shoots over the lip of the amphitheater with his lance held high, wings thrumming.

The highbloods don't react very strongly, all things considered. No, the real bedlam is when the Summoner's rebels surge over the wall as well, dropping in wave after wave upon the unsuspecting highbloods. It's instant---it's like mixing baking soda and vinegar. Instant eruption. Chaos.

But then there's a _real_ eruption---to your left, out of the way of the E%ecutor's platform, something rolls across the sand from seemingly nowhere. You stare in confusion. Without warning, it explodes, and though it's far away, the bomb's detonation still blasts you off your feet and warms the skin of your face and arms. You hit grainy, artificial sand and roll, the sound of complete and total discord hot in your ears. 

_Gotta get up, gotta get up..._ Your metal legs are still working out well, and you spring to your feet, taking in the sight around you. The lowblood rebels have spread like a poison through the seats. Everywhere you look, trolls are fighting; the highbloods were initially surprised, but now they're aware and armed, throwing back everything the lowbloods have and then some.

Fortunately no one's fighting in the pit---actually, no. You stand corrected. Up on the platform, the Summoner has landed, roundhouse kicking Darkleer out of the way and then ramming his lance through the Grand Highblood's thigh. The monstrous subjugglator snarls loud enough to rival the bomb that just went off and jerks his leg back. The lance comes free in a shower of purple. Darkleer, now recovered, aims at the Summoner's back, but the troll has already danced out of the way.

A spray of something wet hits the back of your neck. You spin around, already knowing that it's blood, and watch in silent horror as a pair of highbloods _hang_ a lowblood soldier with a makeshift noose. They shot him before he dies, right through the head, which explains the blood all over you. His body is dropped into the pit and the highbloods return to the fray. 

Your eyes fall on the platform again. The corner caught fire in the explosion, and the fire is clawing along the edges of the wood, slowly but surely. The Signless is absolutely _screaming_ , it's so loud that you can hear every word he's saying and still not make sense of it. He struggles with his bonds as the fire creeps closer. Meanwhile, Darkleer has the Summoner's arms behind his back, the Grand Highblood prowling forward with the purple-stained lance in his massive hands.

God, no. You watch, rooted to the spot, as the flames curl up the wooden post that the Signless is chained to. The iron bonds begin to glow, only slightly at first, then with greater vibrancy, until they're a brighter red than the blood that pours from various wounds on his bare chest. He thrashes, roaring, and you try to move, to help---but someone beats you to it. The troll wears a pair of cheap sunglasses and has his shirt pulled up over his nose. He wades straight _through_ the fire and brings a broadsword up, hacking it down against the burning iron.

You almost throw up---this is all too much, the noise, the screams, the weapons hitting each other and the patterns of gunfire---when someone tackles you from the side. You hit the ground for a second time, struggling fiercely, aware that this must be a highblood who wants to flay you alive. When you open your eyes, you get the exact opposite.

". . . Karkat?"

"Tavros?!" The familiar, sleep-deprived troll's mouth falls open---he looks more surprised than you---but he gathers his bearings soon enough. "What the fuck ever. Catch up later, alright? Now move!" 

He hauls you to your feet and starts shoving you towards one of the archways set intermittently around the interior of the pit, leading into the area under the stands. You're so confused---what is he even doing here?---but you don't have time to ask. He half-flings you through the archway. 

"Get out of here," he orders. "Run while you can. Things are about to get ugly."

"But---"

Karkat makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh. "Will you just move your stupid not-crippled-anymore-for-some-unfathomable-reason ass and don't look back? I'm giving you a chance to escape, now take it!"

Once again, you find yourself proving just how weak and useless you are by just standing there. Karkat throws a wild look over his shoulder, then turns back to you. "You know what? Forget it! If you want to stay here and die, so be it."

Then he's gone, tearing off in the direction of the close-to-crumbling platform. Your solid prosthetic legs are the only reason you haven't fallen over by now. The thought of freedom is strong, pulling you towards the exit, but a sense of devotion draws your eyes to the pit. Be a man. Go fight, you useless twit. Rufio would do it. Why can't you? Go on, idiot. Wimp. Wimpy wimp wimp, fairies aren't real!

You spin on your heel and sprint for the exit. You can't be here another second.

~ATH

Your name is NEPETA LEIJON.

The prisoners of war don't exactly have "down time," but they do have a solid hour before the machines are all booted up where they're left to roam the yard. Sometimes there are fights, but not often. Only the trolls that want to die are stupid enough to do that---it's a guaranteed bullet through the skull. And so far, you still don't want to die.

Most of the soldiers in your unit (the living ones, anyway) have gathered in the southwestern corner of the lot. You can't bring yourself to join them. Everything that's happened has left you with a need to be alone, and a need to see your moirail. But you know that's not possible, so you're left walking a slow circuit around the yard, watching the trolls that know they're dead and have nothing to do about it. It's surreal. 

There's one troll who stands out to you. Like you, she's alone, sitting cross-legged against the northern wall. Her eyes are closed. She wears a tattered grey uniform, indicating that unlike the recently caught rebels, she's a maximum security inmate whose crimes are far more severe. Two knitting needles are stabbed through the bun that she's pulled her hair into.

The fourth or fifth time you pass her, staring discretely, her eyes open and lock on yours. Face impassive, she beckons you with a crooked finger. So, she probably knew that you were sneaking glances all along. Nervous, but still intrigued, you sit on the ground in front of her, mirroring her position.

"I've seen you watching, little cat," she says, confirming your suspicions. "Are you curious?"

"Why are you here? What did you do?" They say curiosity killed the cat, but you can't help it.

"They called me the Handmaid," she begins, the words awkward on her tongue, as if she's never told this story before. "The Signless's Handmaid, that is. I was one of his most trusted followers, the driving force behind many of his victories. I was imprisoned very shortly after the war began. By then, I was known as the Demoness."

"Why?"

"I killed two thousand trolls," she says, face unchanging. She isn't fazed at all. She killed two thousand trolls, and there isn't a drop of remorse on her features.

You feel your eyes widen. "U-um, I, I d-didn't---"

"Didn't expect that? It's alright. They never do."

"But why?" The word "why" is probably burned to your tongue by now.

Her eyes rove past you, to some other time, some other place. "That is the trial of war, little cat. You either kill or be killed. Surely you've bloodied those paws of yours?"

"I have," you admit. "But not that many . . . and only when I need to . . ."

"There's never a need to kill," she murmurs, shaking her head. "We do it because we want to. We do it because we are born to."

"No. You're wrong." You sit up straighter, refusing to believe the older troll. 

"Are you so sure?" Her eyes---rust red---cut through yours. "You enjoy it, I can tell. When you go for the killing strike. When you slice the artery or break the neck. You love the thrill."

You splutter in protest, but she's right and it's pointless. She plows on. "I know I enjoyed it. There was something so gratifying about killing, something right. And I never killed in cold blood---alright, sometimes. But I generally had reason."

You're so horrified that you can only squeak.

"Come now, little cat," she purrs, a grin on her lips. "That's not so bad."

"But you're still alive," you choke, powering through your disgust. "Why haven't they killed you?"

"A sentence of death would be too merciful in light of my crimes." A smirk plays on her lips. "Indeed, sweeps in a prison are certainly punishing me."

"Aren't they?"

"Hardly." 

"Why?"

"Because, kitten. The longer they keep me alive, the more time I have to escape."

~ATH

Your name is EQUIUS ZAHHAK.

You are sitting among the other archeradicators, waiting patiently for the Signless's death, when the lowbloods attack. 

This is exactly what you were waiting for. 

Because you are ludicrously strong, and the rebels are pounding towards you at a range that doesn't support use of your bow, you attack with nothing but your fists, and it's glorious. All the frustration, all the confusion, all the second-guessing courses through your knuckles with every blow. You unload your troubles on your victims. It's all you could have asked for.

You pick up a female by the throat and squeeze until her eyes pop out and her mouth gapes. Not releasing your grip, you swing her at another rebel and watch them both tumble down the rows upon rows of seats, all the way down to the bottom. If they're not dead then the laws of physics aren't working. You drive your elbow into the mouth of another soldier, pound him with your fists until he collapses. 

Someone's dropped a short hunting knife on the ground. You scoop it up and work it deftly, slashing the jugulars of three trolls in one swipe. This is almost fun. The knife is soon slick with your sweat and their blood. Occasionally, you'll catch a troll and fling them effortlessly down the slope. Blue droplets pool on your brow. 

You're forgetting everything. Aradia, Kanaya, everything. This is true bliss. The knife enters through a troll's mouth and pokes out the other end. The corpse falls away, and in its place, five, six, seven more rebels appear, armed but not quite dangerous. They are just as easily dispatched.

A hand comes down on your shoulder. You nearly throw the attacker off, but then they spin you around, and you find yourself looking into the eyes of your unit's captain. He drags you close by the front of your shirt and yells in your ear, "DOWN IN THE PIT---MOVE IT!"

He falls over backwards, and now you see the sword sticking through his chest, his eyes fading out. You spare a glance at the platform. Two trolls are helping the Signless escape, while the Summoner distracts the Grand Highblood and the E%ecutor. Now you see. Everyone else is preoccupied---it seems it's up to you.

You descend the rows at high speed, nearly jumping from seat to seat on your way down the slope. The Signless and his escorts are on the sand, nearing the exit. You put on the speed. You're in danger of pitching forward and killing yourself, but you have a task and it's not going to end in failure. You've had too many of those recently. 

You vault over the rail and drop onto the sand. The platform is half-charred, still a battleground for the three adult trolls. You catch sight of the Signless's cloak as he leans heavily on both of his rescuers. They're getting closer to the archway. You sprint, feeling the muscles in your thighs strain and your lungs contract painfully. They're mere yards away. Few more steps now.

Then the one with the shitty sword at his belt turns and flings the blade, turning back and helping the Signless along in one smooth motion. You're stopped in your tracks. The sword impales the spot just above your knee, a bloom of navy blue blood splattering to the sand. You hit the ground and roll, upsetting the wound even more. They've won. You lie there, agonizing pain centered in your leg, then reach blindly with gloved hands and grab the hilt of the sword. 

One strong tug and it's out, falling to the sand next to you. 

Come on, Zahhak. Get up. Get them.

You struggle to your feet. The pain in your knee makes you see white, and you have to stumble almost blindly along after them. The interior of the amphitheater passes in a blur. You don't care about that. What matters is the exterior, where your vision clears and the bobbing figures of the fugitives comes into view. But you'll never catch up, they're too far away---and then you realize. You don't need to. 

Your bow.

You take an archer's stance and knock an arrow, aiming at the back of the Signless's head. Steady . . . steady . . . there.

You release your fingers. The arrow flies.

And something very heavy slams into the back of your skull. You slump forward to your knees, further spiking the pain that emanates from there, and your face hits the ground hard. Someone stands over you. You force your head up, even though the effort is like lifting a ship with one hand. 

"Sorry," Tavros Nitram says, and then he turns heel and runs---but not before kicking you in the side of the head with a metal foot, and finally, you black out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must let you all know that this chapter was hard to write and felt like filler. Fortunately, the next update will be much more...
> 
> (chuckles darkly)
> 
> ... _INTERESTING._


	13. "War is not an Adventure. It is a Disease." - Troll Antoine de Saint-Exunery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to finish this up sooner, but midterms have arrived. Enjoy!
> 
> /rolls away into the sun

Your name is ERIDAN AMPORA.

Sirens.

They loop and whine, floating above all the other sounds of the city. They're coming closer. 

You hesitate too long, like an idiot. You convince yourself that they aren't coming for you. Maybe because you and Fef just went dumpster-diving, or maybe because the lack of sufficient nutrition has made you a bit sluggish, you remain seated against the alley wall and motion for her to wait for the sirens to pass. She looks jumpy. 

When the police vehicle screeches to a stop at the mouth of the alley, you realize what an idiot you truly are.

The driver's side door swings open and an armed police officer throws himself out, aiming his firearm at you. "Don't move!"

The alleyway is way too shadowy for him to fire off a clear shot, and you're not about to get captured. You thread your hand around her arm and take off for the other end of the alley with Feferi in tow. A chain-link fence blocks your escape, but without faltering, you spring forward and curl your fingers in the links, climbing up hand over hand. She's a little behind you, and that's too slow. The cop has vaulted over the hood of his vehicle and approaches cautiously. 

"Come on!" You're straddling the top of the fence. She's a little above halfway up, but the officer is nearly there, stumbling along in the dark. Grunting, you reach down and wind your fingers in the back of her shirt, lifting her with the very last vapors of your already waning strength. You keep your hand on her back when you fall to the other side of the fence and bolt.

The two of you wheel onto a packed street, ramming into several passing highbloods on the sidewalk. They give you dirty looks and swear words. The cop is just dropping from the fence, so you catch Feferi's hand and bully your way through the crowd. Traffic blares to your left. Behind you, the police officer's shouts are audible, spurring you on. 

You cross the street at a green light, nearly killing you and Fef, but manage to dance out of the way before a public transport unit can cream you. It stops the officer, at least for a few minutes. You're clear, kind of.

"Eridan, I can't, run, that much longer," Feferi pants, breath shivering in and out of her mouth. 

"Just a little further," you say through gritted teeth, feet pounding the pavement hard enough to send jolts of pain up the length of your shins. You're lying. There's no telling how far you're going to have to run, or if you'll even get away. But lying to her is more comforting for both of you.

Once you're sure the line of sight has been broken, you careen into yet another featureless alley. A dozen bulging garbage bags are scattered nearby. Holding your breath, you all but dive into the trash, burying yourself and your companion in the reeking trash. Ugh. How did your life get to this point?

The officer's footsteps are like gunshots. Fuckin' hell, he's just a few feet away. Might find you any second. Your fumble blindly with one hand and cut your fingers on something sharp---great. The sizable piece of broken glass is good enough. You take it in your hand, grip tightening until a line of your own blood is inked across your skin. Somewhere to your right, Feferi is trembling.

For a few misleading moments, you think you're safe; but then one of the garbage bags that conceals you is ripped away, exposing you to the police officer.

"Gotcha," he taunts.

No. Not after all you've been through.

You launch yourself forward, the shard now embedded in your palm, and slam all of your weight into the cop. You both totter and hit the ground hard. There's a struggle, and you end up on top, pinning him down with your knees. His arm comes up---with a gun in hand. Before he can aim it properly, you do the only thing you can.

You plunge the jagged shard of glass into the cop's throat.

There's way more blood than you would've liked, like someone's turned a shower on and what's coming out isn't water but cerulean blue blood. The cop gags and tries to breathe, but the air is forced out with the blood. His eyes dissever yours. Then, they sort of fade, the way a movie ends and then dissolves into nothing. That's it. He's dead. The end.

Shit.

"Eridan."

In the struggle, you forgot about Fef entirely. Her voice is cracked in pieces. You turn around, the noise of the cop's lifeblood still dribbling behind you. Her face is devoid of color, frozen in a horrified expression, which is fixed on the body. You take a tentative step forward. 

She turns on you. The snap from revolted to livid is instantaneous. There's no time to defend yourself, or run; her fists pound hard on your chest, and all of the breath whooshes out of you in one big puff. Wheezing, you shackle her wrists in your hands. Undeterred, she keeps straining to hit you, going so far as to kick you in the groin---your knees nearly buckle.

Without warning, she stops fighting, angry tears still trailing down her cheeks. Her forehead dips forward and hits your collarbone. "Why did you kill him? You didn't have to kill him, Eridan."

You want to say that you did have to kill him, that he would have turned the gun on you if you'd waited another second, but that's not going to do anything and you know it. You remain silent until the growing pool of blood reaches your shoes and her shoulders stop shaking. Gently, you say, "We have to leave."

Before you go, she demands for you to wait while she drags the officer's body into a spot that's not strewn with litter and murmurs something respectfully. You're patient. When she returns, she points to your chest. You look down, just then remembering that your jacket is absolutely covered in blood.

"You might want to take that off."

~ATH

Your name is ARADIA MEGIDO.

You kick the canvas blanket off and roll to your knees, the trunk of the shuttle nearly pitch-black and remarkably stuffy. The lack of movement for several minutes now has led you to believe that you've made it onto the Condesce's ship. Jade has her ear pressed to the wall, listening intently for any signs of life, and when something does breach your fortress, you both hear it.

_"Hey, Livido, when's your break?"_

_"Couple minutes, I think. Ten, maybe?"_

_"Come on, I'm going to find something to eat. Dip out a little early with me."_

_"Are you crazy? I could get culled for that!"_

_"You'll be fine, man. Ten minutes won't hurt, and there's no one around."_

_"Alright, alright. But you're paying."_

_"Har har, very funny, jackass."_

The voices fade. A few more minutes of tense silence, and you're antsy for some activity. You lean towards Jade and whisper, "I think it's safe."

"Are you sure?" Her voice is strung out like a tightrope. 

"Not really." On that note, you blindly reach for the latch near your elbow to release the trunk. Agonizingly slowly, the door lifts, providing an enlarging view of the hangar. More shuttles are lined up in rows around yours. When no one shouts and no footsteps pound towards you, you nod for her to follow you and drop silently to the metal floor.

You scan the wide hangar warily, creeping forward with Jade on your heels, until the first step of a flight of stairs comes into view. Twenty steps to the stairs without anyone catching you. You're doing better than you expected. A featureless hallway greets you, then another, and another. You shoulder Jade into a particularly deep doorway. "Do you even know where we're going?"

She has a hastily scribbled map in her hands, lime green eyes darting over it wildly. Notes of the same color are jotted down on the sides of the map. "I'm looking, I'm looking. . . ."

Distant footsteps set your blood pusher into overdrive. You're about to grab her and run, but her eyes widen victoriously. She jabs a finger at the paper. 

"I've got it!"

She takes off, and you follow a bit apprehensively, the threat of discovery a cold weight on your shoulders. "Where are we going?"

"There's a tiny block near the throne room---that's where we'll find it." She checks the map again. "The guards will be everywhere, though. . . ."

That can't be good for you two. You uncoil your whip from your forearm and focus on making your steps absolutely silent, nudging Jade's shoulder blade every so often when her footsteps err on the side of too-conspicuous or when her pace speeds up past a level that you're comfortable with. Rushing into things will get you nowhere. Best to approach with caution, survey the situation, and go from there.

On several occasions, the sound of footsteps prompts you to shove her into the nearest block and bunker down until the danger has passed. You're deathly afraid of ducking into a highblood's nest, but it's the best you can do. You're impressed by Jade's professional manner. Though she looks younger than she is, she handles herself almost like a soldier. Almost like you. Her back story, which remains a mystery to you, provides no explanation.

At the end of a wood-paneled hallway, Jade holds up her hand and shows her palm to you---stop. You cover her back while she peeks around the corner. You walk backwards when she begins to move again, your eyes locked on the rear. Because of this, you don't realize that a guard has stepped into Jade's path until he barks, _"Intruders!"_

You whirl around, already drawing back the whip. Jade gets there first. Her rifle braced against her shoulder, she levels the muzzle and pulls the trigger. The shot echoes in the hall, reverberating around the enclosed space, and you resist the urge to cover your ears as the bullet spins straight through the guard's forehead and then out the other side in a halo of navy blue. It reminds you of Equius.

"Let's go!" Jade's given up on subtleties, charging forward with her rifle up. You stay right on her heels. No guards yet, but you hear footsteps overhead, and somewhere behind. The hallway lets out in front of grand, overly decorated doors. The Condesce's throne is behind them, and the Condesce herself. You can't drag your eyes away, even when Jade's hand curls around your arm and drags you to a door on your left.

"This is it," Jade hisses excitedly, bending her knee back and bringing her foot down hard on the door. No use being inconspicuous now. Inside, a dimly lit block unfolds. Several guards spring to their feet, all armed, but the muzzle of Jade's rifle is red-hot as she fires. Your whip cracks, disarms several soldiers, then knocks a few of them to their feet, leaving them open to Jade's fire. 

"Barricade the door." Jade steps over the bodies and heads to the end of the block, where a high-tech vault is set into the wall. You busy yourself with shutting the kicked-in door and blocking it with a chair. When you look over Jade's shoulder, she's nearly cracked the safe.

"Are you sure you've got this?" you ask, just as the butt of a gun hits the door, followed by the voices of bloodthirsty guards.

Jade swears. "I'm almost done . . . almost . . . _there_!"

The safe's key pad blinks green, then the safe's airlocks breathe and the door swings open of its own accord. The chair holding the door closed looks fit to break any second. Jade's hand snatches up an entirely unimpressive computer chip, lying anticlimactically on the floor of the safe. "Got it. Let's go!"

"Go where?" You have already resigned yourself to what's about to happen. The chair will snap, the guards will storm the block, and the jig will be up. Unless.

"How are we supposed to get out of here?" she says, frantic. You shush her.

"You're getting out of here." You gracelessly kick over the body of a dead guard, revealing a once-hidden air vent. Two quick strikes with your heel and the vent's grate pops off its hinges. "Get in there. Get the chip out safely."

"No! I'm not leaving you here!"

The chair groans as its metal frame warps under pressure. Not gently in the slightest, you grab her by the back of her neck and all but throw her into the vent. "Go."

She struggles with you, trying to wiggle free. "Are you insane?!"

"You are, if you stay." You heft the guard's body back into place, sitting him up and hiding the vent. "Now leave!"

Just as the words leave your mouth, the chair gives in, and the guards swarm the block. Laser sights and scopes train on you. Radios buzz and chatter everywhere. Slowly, you hold your hands up in defeat. Jade Harley, if she has any sense at all, is gone.

~ATH

Your name is KANAYA MARYAM.

For the second time this week, you're staring at a letter and there is an injured female resting upstairs in your guestblock.

You should have sent your reply nights ago, and you haven't, meaning you'll probably be in deep trouble soon enough. Your eyes hover over the blank space for your input underneath the letter. It's threateningly small. You're itching to just scribble down your allegiance with the highbloods, but that would be so terribly wrong of you. A complete lie. Because you believe in what the lowbloods are dying for, night after night, and you want nothing more than for them to win the war.

Unfortunately, the reality of the situation is that their chances of defeating the highbloods are slim to none.

You cover your eyes with one hand, frustrated with your indecisiveness and the choice you have to make in general. But more with yourself. If you have even an ounce of common sense, you'll lie and be done with it---yet you don't do anything of the sort. You can only remember what it was like pre-wartime, when lowbloods were treated like scum, unable to do anything to protect themselves from the highbloods' wrath. Senseless murder, political assassinations. Slavery. Prostitution. Hard times on your side of the hemospectrum, indeed. You've been spared---but so many more haven't. Could you abandon them?

Maybe. That's what scares you---your own cowardice.

You're going to procrastinate more, it seems. You leave the letter curled up in the backroom and climb the stairs, knocking lightly on the guestblock door. There's a slight rustle from within, then a voice: "Come in."

Rose Lalonde smiles warmly at you and closes a novel that she must have picked up from somewhere around your hive. You almost blush, because there's a ninety percent chance that it's a saucy rainbow drinker volume. Clearing your throat, you close the door behind you, your medical kit in hand. 

"Routine check-up," you inform her, swooping immediately down on her injured hand. You unwrap the bandages meticulously and inspect the damage. As you're replacing the soiled bandages, you say, "A few nights' rest has treated you well."

"Only because you're such a good caregiver," she praises, holding her hand still while you work. "How much longer do you think? Until my hand will be healed?"

You purse your lips, considering. "Several more nights. And even then, I wouldn't recommend doing anything strenuous."

"That's good to hear," she sighs, her shoulders relaxing.

"I still really would like to know how this happened to you," you pry. You know that you're meddling, but the extent of her injuries is a mystery and you're curious. 

You expect her to decline, like she has for the last few nights, but after a measured silence she nods slightly. "I didn't want to upset you, but that's only fair after all you've done for me."

As you work, she recounts her failed mission, capture, and then torture at the hands of the lowblood rebels. You feel your stomach twisting in knots. You're revolted. All this time, you've painted lowbloods as valiant seekers of freedom, and the highbloods to be rapscallions with murder in their eyes. Now you don't know what to think. The fact that the supposed "good guys" would do this to someone that was just following orders makes you sick.

Making your decision has just become that much more difficult, it seems.

"I'm sorry this happened to you." Your voice is pitched low with betrayal. 

"It's not your fault," she says, more on impulse than anything. You feel like it's your fault. By definition, you _are_ a lowblood, just like the scum who're behind this. This is the reason you hate war---it turns good trolls into monsters.

You let her hand fall to the armrest and stand. You're about to give her your medical evaluation when faintly, somewhere downstairs, you hear the sharp, tinny clangs of the bell on your front desk. Not good---you weren't expecting visitors, and the shop is closed right now. You don't think you can handle anymore unexpected visitors.

"Stay here, and don't make any noise," you caution her, tensely leaving her alone and descending the stairs into the front room of the shop.

You're not surprised to see the soldier standing upright by the desk, his imperial uniform crisp and clean and a clipboard in his hand. He's a seadweller, but those are common enough around here; your home situated on the strip of land that separates a busy coastline from a rural jungle. Upon your arrival, the soldier nods in acknowledgement and holds up the clipboard.

"Are you Kanaya Maryam, of jade blood, and in your ninth sweep?" He has expressionless, give-away-nothing eyes that unnerve you. You nod.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"I've been sent to collect your response to a recent survey issued to all jade blooded trolls," he responds, clicking a pen loudly and poising it over the paper. "Please answer in a clear and concise manner as to which side of this war you affiliate with. Do note that if you choose the lowbloods over the highbloods, you will be culled in a swift and lawful manner."

Maybe on another day, you would have nobly accepted a just death, standing for what you believe in; but now you hesitate. The rebels aren't the tortured protagonists you've thought them to be, and by the looks of it, not all highbloods are as merciless and cruel as their opponents let on. You think of Lieutenant Rose Lalonde, recovering upstairs in your guestblock; and you open your mouth to speak. 

You're interrupted by the sound of something heavy moving across the floor upstairs. 

The soldier meets your eyes, confused and suspicious, and then checks his clipboard for confirmation---does Kanaya Maryam have a listed resident in her hive? No, no she doesn't. You feel yourself go cold at the thought of what will happen. He barks a question (who's up there?) but you only stand in silence, searching your repertoire of excuses and coming up blank. The soldier lets the clipboard clatter to the front desk and shoulders past you, up the stairs.

You whirl around and follow, but he's already throwing open the guestblock door by the time you reach the second floor. By the time you make it to the doorway, he's on the floor and Rose is standing with a purple-smeared lamp in her right hand and your book in her left. 

The soldier is sprawled on the ground, barely conscious, a trickle of violet painting his forehead.

Somehow, you saw this coming.

Rose drops the book as if it's burning, and you discern that that's the hand that's injured; the bandages are still in place, but purple blood flowers across the white cloth. Despite the pain she must be in, she ignores it and kneels next to the highblood, who's struggling to sit up. 

"Stop fighting," she commands, voice cold and businesslike. He does---as soon as he catches the color of irises. "State your name, soldier."

"Wessen Batino---"

"Rank?"

He swallows. You stand in the doorway, transfixed. "Corporal. What's it to you---"

"Shut up." Her good hand delves into her jacket pocket and returns with a medal on a tyrian purple ribbon, the pendant made of a shiny black material and inscribed with an intricate design. His eyes go wide. "As a Lieutenant, I outrank you. Who's your superior?" 

His entire demeanor changes. Instead of a defiant soldier, he looks like an intimidated grub. "Warrant Officer Kinney, sir!"

"I outrank him, too," she points out, closing her fist around the medal. "Now listen to me, Corporal. Your orders have changed. You're going to go back to Kinney and tell him that Kanaya Maryam is a highblood ally, no matter what she says. And you're not going to tell him this order came from Lieutenant Lalonde. There's no order at all, understand?"

"Lalonde?" he repeats, mouth falling open in shock. "Everyone thinks you're dead---"

"I'm not," she snaps, standing over him. "But you will be if we don't get out. Now."

The soldier nods, rolls over, scrabbles past you and down the stairs. You hear him leave. Rose inspects her hand, and you gently take her forearm and unwrap the bandages for the second time tonight. "That was interesting."

"Quite," she says, her voice not giving away her feelings on anything that's happened tonight. 

You should thank her. Without her help, you would've been stuck trying to decide between two sides of a bad situation, squeezed between a rock and a hard place. Maybe getting your choices taken away from you can be a good thing sometimes. Rather than speaking, you finish your task and guide her back to the chair, setting the book in her lap. 

"Thank you." She graces you with an uncharacteristically warm smile and finds her page with one hand. 

"One more thing," you interrupt, before she finds her place on the page. "Everyone thinks you're dead, correct?"

"That is correct."

"And when do you plan on resurfacing?"

Her expression is several layers of thoughtfulness. She's not telling you something about all of this, but you trust that you'll figure it out soon enough. Just a matter of time. Her eyes find yours, something passes between you and her, and she inclines her head towards you. 

"A better question is when you plan on letting me leave."

~ATH

Your name is TEREZI PYROPE.

As these things usually go, you catch the scent before the picture fully forms. He smells like saltwater and deceit. Under that, there's insecurity and a good dose of malice, and it all rolls together into a potent mixture that coats the hallway you've just stepped into. Like walking into a cloud of bad news. You want to cover your nose.

Next, you get a blurry image of him, a tall, solid body and expensive clothes and medals on his chest. You halt in place. Vriska is waiting for you upstairs, but the Orphaner is here, and you're not about to let him catch you by surprise. The scent is creeping up from behind. You rotate and get hit in the face with the Orphaner's smell, and now you hear his boots click around the corner, a watercolor painting of his figure coming with it.

"Ah, Counselor," he says, as if this is a coincidence, which you highly doubt. He's been looking for you. "Just the troll I was looking for."

"Can I help you, General?" you ask, polite as all get out. 

He smells like he's smiling. "It's about the trial, of course. So unfortunate that you were dragged into all of this."

"It was my choice, actually," you correct him, your hand tightening on your cane. The pointed end digs into the carpet. 

"A poor one at that." He looms closer. "I thought we should catch up before we meet again in the courtblock."

You're getting nervous, but your poker face is good. "Do you have something you wanted to tell me, Orphaner?"

"Yes, indeed," he says, and like a light bulb burning out, his pleasant facade disintegrates. "I will give you a new choice, Pyrope. You can keep your nose out of matters that don't concern you and lose the trial, whether you want to or not. And if not, I'm sure I can find more _colorful_ ways of disposing of you."

Your blood feels slushy in your veins. He wants to intimidate you, and it's working. You're tempted to just bomb the trial and get off this ship alive. But that wouldn't be the path of a true legislacerator, would it? Redglare wouldn't throw the case away for life or limb. Dualscar can kill you anytime he wants---you're leaps and bounds below him on the spectrum---so why not win? You can, you think. You can win.

And what happens if you do? The great and terrible Orphaner can't possibly be threatened by this. Just two nine-sweep ceruleans that don't matter at all. Maybe he's out to protect his reputation---accusing and losing wouldn't be good for publicity---but even then, his efforts to make sure Vriska is sent to her death are impressive. And now his words: _keep your nose out of matters that don't concern you._ There has to be something deeper. Something he's keeping covered up.

"Are you feeling nervous, General?" You're pushing it. "Surely you're not worried about the outcome of the trial."

"Listen, girl," he growls, teeth locked together. "Your think pan is developed enough to know that there's more to this than there appears. If you've any sense at all you'll walk away." 

"I would," you agree. "But I never claimed to have any sense, did I?"

You resist a cackle, and your nose tells you that his face is a mask of rage. He backs away. "You've been warned. Don't make the wrong decision."

Then he's gone.

What's your secret, Orphaner? you wonder, beginning to walk again. What's locked up in that head of yours?

You lay out the facts, the way any troll of the law would. Dualscar accused John and Vriska (two of _Mindfang's_ ambassadors, there has to be something there) of treason. Instant trial. You have no doubt that they're innocent---John's already been set free. This is just a charade. But for what? You try to imagine what Dualscar would get out of Vriska's death, and find nothing. Nothing on the surface, anyway.

You analyze the Marquise's involvement in this. She's Dualscar's kismesis, you know, since it's a well-known fact among highbloods. How strange of Dualscar to victimize her young wards. Only not really---their rivalry burns deeply. But this can't all be for the sake of their caliginous affairs. You recall something Vriska had told you, straight from Mindfang's lips---the General is trying to usurp her. 

Something clicks in your think pan, and you physically stop in your tracks. Now you come to understand that this isn't about Dualscar's reputation---it's about Mindfang's. He wants to discredit her as much as possible, and proving her diplomats to be spies is a fine way to do it. But there's still no motive for his actions. Except.

Vriska relayed something else---the Marquise suspects the Orphaner is the one behind the attack on her fleet. It's an outrageous claim, your rational side thinks. He's too powerful to risk his position over something like that. But if he's truly trying to put her out of commission, the first step would be to take away her trolls. Now all he has to do is humiliate her before the most powerful highbloods alive, and he'll be successful.

It's all very abstract, but you think that you can win this case, if at least half of this is true. You pick up the pace---Vriska ought to know that you've made a break through. 

You're turning another corner when the first alarms ring true. They're loud, funneling into your overly-sensitive auricular sponge clots like drills, and you slap your hands over your ears. A red hazard light thrums to life overhead. Your confusion lessens when an automated voice replaces the sirens.

"There has been a breach near the throne room," the voice drones, louder than the alarms were. "Repeat. Breach near the throne room. Two confirmed intruders have boarded the ship. All guards are to find and destroy them. They are armed. Approach with caution. Guests are urged to remain in their respiteblocks, or to find the nearest safe block and barricade yourselves in. Thank you."

The sirens pick back up, and you take off with more urgent speed. As if you need another reason to stress yourself out. The noise and the crimson lights are making your head hurt, and by the time you stumble to Vriska's block, you feel like something detonated in your skull. 

"What the hell is going on out there?" she demands, grabbing you and pulling you into the block by your collar. You sit down on the floor and massage your forehead.

"Who knows?" You want to go to sleep. "But fortunately, I had a nice discussion with the General."

"Jesus, what did he want?"

"Doesn't matter. What does matter is that he gave away exactly how to win this case."

You smell the alabaster color of her fangs when her face splits into a slow, easy smile. "Oh, yeah? Well, I guess Mindfang was right. He is as dumb as he looks."

"Quite."


	14. "The Utter Helplessness of a Conquered People is Perhaps the Most Tragic Feature of a Civil War or Any Other Sort of War." - Troll Rebecca Latimer Felton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you are wondering, the "highblood dialect" in Aradia's part is Romanian. Fire up Google Translate if you dare.

Your name is ARADIA MEGIDO.

_"De ce l-ai furat?"_

It's dark.

_"Vorbește, sânge țăran!"_

You don't know what language the interrogator is speaking; you only know that when you open your eyes, you are sitting upright in a hard chair, a bare bulb swings slightly above your head, and the rest of the block is curtained in shadows. Your hands are bound. The interrogator looms in front of you, a burly troll with violet eyes. He expectorates another line of a foreign dialect. You open your mouth to voice your confusion, anything, but all that comes out is trickles of blood.

His right hand reaches back towards his left shoulder. You think he's going to rub the skin there or something similar, but instead he jackhammers his elbow at your face. There is a very distinctive noise when your nose breaks. The fresh blood gets in your mouth, and when you spit as much of it out as you can, his knuckles nearly knock your teeth out.

 _"Nu mă minți!"_ he roars, inches from your face. You want to retaliate, spit, do something, but you don't have the energy. You have nothing. _"În cazul în care este partenerul tau?!"_

You shake your head. You don't know what he's saying, and you don't care. He's going to kill you. It's inevitable. Once you've outlived your usefulness, he'll do away with you in seconds. No reason to give him what he wants---whatever that is. Of course, it must have to do with Jade's escape, and the chip she stole. Not that you know anything about that.

 _"Murdărie,"_ he growls, the word filled with a hatred that you can't begin to understand. Difference, prejudice, seemingly innocuous things; how do they come to this? 

"Why?" you mouth, not finding enough air in your stomach to back up the word. 

This time the back of his hand strikes your cheek. The jolt of impact whips your head around, sends a shock wave of pain down your neck. Your head lolls to the side, and you half-hope that he's finished. A steel-toed shoe rams into one of your shins, once, twice. Both times, you hear ugly snaps that make your chest swell with pain, and then the initial shock wears off and you cry out, more blood dribbling down your chin.

He moves out of the circle of yellow light. You expect him to jump out of nowhere, but you can hear a door swing open somewhere nearby, and then the sound of foreign voices conversing through the thin walls. Shouting. You think your arm is broken. Maybe both. How long have you been here? 

His staccato footsteps reenter the block. He looks more revolted and furious than ever when his face comes under the light. You buck up for another bout of abuse, but lighter footsteps appear, and someone else appears at the interrogator's elbow.

 _"Forțeze să vorbească,"_ he says, his voice pitched in a way that makes you think it's a command. 

Terezi Pyrope takes a good whiff of you and nods. _"Cum doriti, Inchizitor."_

He spits in your direction---the glob is damp on your collar---and leaves.

You turn your eyes, nearly swollen shut, on a troll you once knew; but conflicts of interest don't account for old friends. 

"They want to know why you took it." Her voice is brisk, businesslike, and nothing like the six-sweep version of her. There's no trace of her usual cackle to be heard. 

"You've . . . changed," you cough. Better to change the subject than outright refuse to answer.

Her hand whispers to her belt and unsheathes the dragon-topped cane, its razor-sharp point digging just-so into the soft skin of your throat. A little push and your jugular will puncture. Inexorable death. "This isn't about me, prisoner. Speak."

"Or what? You'll . . . kill me?" You try to force some luster into your voice, and fall flat.

"Perhaps." But you see the cane quiver.

"I'm not afraid . . . of death, Terezi."

The cane draws blood, but does little more than prick the skin. "There are worse things."

You try a different approach. "You're not a killer."

"Try me," she blusters on, though you see that you've struck a nerve. "It's my right. It's my _duty_."

"But you won't enjoy it," you press. "You'd hate yourself."

"Hardly."

"It would be wrong . . . and you know it." You think of the Terezi you knew---or, as far as FLARPing went, the Neophyte. "Lawful, but not right."

Her arm falls slack, the point of the cane scritch-scratching across the concrete floor. "Change of plans."

"What---"

She's behind you now, out of your sight. You can't believe that blatant manipulation worked. A stupid trick you picked up on tour---appeal to their personal morals, if they have any. There has to be a hitch. She's going to stab you from behind. 

Instead the binds around your wrists and ankles fall away, and she flashes into view again, snaking your arm over her shoulder. She helps you up from the chair. Instantly, your knees buckle, and she catches you inches from the ground.

"Don't think too much of this, Miss Rust," she pants, supporting your weight for you. Your shin is definitely damaged, if not broken entirely. "I will get you out of this---but it's the last favor I'm doing you!" 

She half-drags you into the dark, stopping a few paces into the inky blackness and then shoving you carelessly out of the way. You guess the darkness of the block is a blessing. You hear the door open once more, and then Terezi's voice, in that curious highblood dialect you can't remember the name of.

_"Prizonier refuză să vorbească."_

The interrogator answers her. _"Voi încerca din nou."_

_"Nu, nu, că nu va fi necesar,"_ Terezi says, hurriedly. _"La o pauză. Mă ocup eu."_

_"Dacă spui tu."_

Receding footsteps. Suddenly, Terezi's at your side, man-handling you through the doorway and into a small block with a handful of tables and chairs. She throws you into a chair and moves to a wall. A metal hatch is nailed into the wall. 

"I don't think . . . I can crawl out of here," you gasp, nearly doubling over in pain when you touch your fractured shin. 

"You won't be doing any crawling! You'll be sliding free, silly!" She points to foreign words that are stamped on the hatch. "That says dross coffer, in case you're wondering." 

Of course. It's a trash chute. 

Terezi muscles it open. The chute falls away into darkness, and you can smell it from here. She helps you limp to the hatch, and then position yourself in it, legs first. Your fingers on her sleeve are the only things between you and your descent. You have the feeling this is going to hurt. 

"So? Where does this end?" you ask. 

"it empties into a shuttle that's headed for Alternia." She loosens your grip on her. "It won't be the most comfortable ride, and once you're on the surface, I can't help you. But this will probably be enough." 

"Thank you." 

Her cackle-grin is practically carved into her face. _"Sunteți în datoria mea. Sunteti deja învins."_

"Excuse me?" 

"An old highblood saying," she says passively. She peels your fingers away from her sleeve, then lets go. Your body weight carries you away.

~ATH

Your name is EQUIUS ZAHHAK.

When you wake, your head sings with pain, and your leg is on fire. You're stretched out on a cot in a very white block. You strain your over-worked muscles and scan the length of your body, noting the heavy bandaging above your knee where the sword struck. Everything hurts, but you have more important matters on your mind. 

You don't know where the others are, or how the battle in the amphitheater played out. You do know that the Signless and his companions escaped, however, and that you failed your mission. But you won't fail again. That's a silent promise to your fallen leader. 

A door opens to the right. A male medislayer bustles inside, palmtop in hand. His eyebrows flick upwards in surprise when he sees that you're awake. 

"I'm impressed, sir," he comments, whistling low. "Trolls of higher blood than yours would still be unconscious. That you're awake at all is a feat in itself." 

"What happened?" you demand. You sit up, fighting to keep the strain from your features. You've never felt weak before, and you won't start now. 

"At the amphitheater?" the medislayer clarifies, setting the palmtop down on a counter and pressing the business end of a stethoscope to your chest cavity. "If you relax, I'll tell you." 

"Fine." 

"Wonderful." He takes some notes. "The highbloods were victorious, of course. The Summoner subdued Darkleer. As soon as the mutant was freed, the Summoner retreated with the last of his forces. It was a routine defeat." 

"The Signless escaped." 

He nods. "Unfortunately, yes. Disappeared without a trace. Though the lowbloods don't call him the Signless anymore---they call him the Sufferer. For his 'struggles.' How ridiculous." 

"Extremely." Your mind races with the possibilities, but you know you won't be able to find the escapees just yet. You lie back on the cot and allow the medislayer to inspect your wounds. 

"You don't have a clean bill of health, but I'm sure you'll make a fool recovery within the week." 

"Unacceptable." You bat his hands away and sit up again. "I have work to do."

He sighs, like he sees this a lot. "Rest, soldier. You have a visitor."

"Who?" 

"He requested that I withhold information, so that he can debrief you himself," the medislayer replies, an uneasy look on his face. "His caste . . . I couldn't refuse. I'll send him in." 

You swing your legs over the cot, in a somewhat sitting position, while the troll leaves. The next time the door opens, it's not him. The visitor is horrifyingly familiar. Blood covers his clothes, mats his hair, drips from the hems of his clownish pants onto the linoleum floor. He looks too dark in the brilliantly white block. His first words, to no one's surprise, are, "Sup, motherfucker."

"Makara," you say coolly. You used to respect him; even more than that, really, the way you valued his caste. Now you're wary of all the horrible crimes he's committed.

"I see you let the fucking shitbloods get away," he says, voice low and scratchy and deceivingly casual. "A whole goddamn trio. At first I thought, you gotta be shitting me. He ain't seriously spread-fucking-eagled on the bitchin' ground while the shitbloods are halfway home. Anyway, I dragged your heavy ass back here and let you get some rest. Because I require your services, peasant."

Your face colors at his words. "I am no peasant."

"You're a motherfucking GUTTERBLOOD." His voice spikes in volume so unexpectedly that you almost jump back yourself. "Compared to me, you aren't fit to paint the GRAND HIGHBLOOD'S FUCKING THRONE."

"What do you want, Makara?" Your hands curl in the sheets. 

"I got a bitch tits proposition for you, brother," he half-whispers-half-shouts. "You, me, we dip out and find these mutant _bitches_ and drag them back. Glory and power and a chance to take a slice out of them will await when he scoot back to the GHB. What do you say, motherfucker? Want to partner up?" 

He smiles, sloppy, and you almost cringe. 

But you have a mission. And if anyone can help you, it's a subjugglator. Even if he harms you along the way. 

"I accept," you say, tersely. "But be clear. This is not a reflection of how I feel about who you are and what you've done, highblood. I live to serve the Empire."

"Bitch, you live to serve _me_."

~ATH

Your name is KANAYA MARYAM.

You wake to the sound of screaming.

It's very early in the evening, and when you climb out of your recuperacoon, half-naked and covered in slime, you somehow expect to see pale moonlight befitting of such an evening. Instead, the orange glow of fire flickers behind your window, warping shadows and discoloring your furniture. You press your face to the glass and look out. Flames lick the street below. Dark figures, indistinguishable, dash among the smoke. 

Through the glass, you can hear yelling, warnings and howls that make your skin erupt in goosebumps. A particular roar stands out above the other: _"That's a fucking bomb!"_

Indeed it its.

You hit the ground just as the window explodes inward, showering you in glass and a rush of heat from outside. The bomb that went off in the street was powerful enough to reach your second-story respiteblock---you don't want to know what your shop downstairs looks like right about now. You half-crawl out from under the sill, nicking your hands and knees on a million shards of glass, and make it to the door. Along the way, you wrestle on a sweater that isn't clean and a skirt. Not the best choice of wardrobe for an unexpected attack, but you digress.

In the hallway, the realization that Rose is still in the other block hits you hard. Before you turn around, she's already there, her hand on your elbow, tugging you to the stairs. You don't object. Better to have a trained military combatant calling the shots as of this moment. Downstairs, it's just as bad as you'd imagined; the windows and door have all blown inward, scattering broken glass and wood all over the scorched floor. Many of your designs are engulfed in ash and flame. The power's out, and the only source of light is a harsh orange-red that stems from the fires indoors and out. 

The smoke is choking, camping in your nose and mouth, and you drag the neck of your sweater up over your face. Rose has directed you to stay put by the stairs, darting to the broken window and looking out on the street. You see a disconcerting number of trolls screech past, their clothes literally on fire, and weapons everywhere. A distant explosion comes from the next street over. Rose returns to your side with an uneasy expression.

"Lowblood rebels," she shouts. The noise tries to swallow her voice, and ends up spitting it back out, half-chewed. "They've attacked the port. Come on!"

"Where?" She can't possibly have a plan for this.

Rather than speaking, she tugs you through the slightly less damaged backroom and out through the back door. The yard and adjacent jungle are disturbingly tranquil when compared to what's happening out front. On the back step, she answers your question. "I'm dead if I stay here. And you are, too. The highbloods will have entered you into the registry by now."

"Registry?" you repeat, wincing when a piercing scream cleaves the night air.

"It's a list of all highblood sympathizers," she explains. "The lowbloods know exactly who's on it. It's public. And they're well-trained when it comes to identifying the enemy."

You feel your face pale. This is what you'd feared when you'd been forced to choose a side---that eventually, the side you turn your back on would destroy you. It seems that that's exactly what's happening. You shake doubts and fears from your head and meet Rose's eyes, silently determined to get out alive. "What do we have to do?"

"I would say this convenient jungle, but the lowbloods are very good at using their immense numbers to the advantage---they'll be covering the surrounding area like snow on the ground. Our best bet is to go _under_ them. You wouldn't happen to know where the nearest sewer entrance is, would you?"

She has a grim smile on, as if she's enjoying an inside joke that you're not in on. "Out on the street, of course. You don't really want to go out there, do you?"

"Of course I do," she replies, following the length of the hive and then turning the corner. You trail behind, ready to whip out a chainsaw should the need arise. 

In the shadow of you hive, you watch the street disintegrate rapidly into absolute chaos. Fires rip their ways across the asphalt. Raiders climb through windows into abandoned (and occupied) shops. Struggles between different castes can be seen here and there, and it seems that the lowbloods, riding out their surprise attack, are winning. You flinch when a blue blood you know from around town is decapitated by a brown blood and a rusty blade. The usually clear coastal air is black with smoke.

"There." You guide Rose's eyes to the manhole cover in the middle of the street. A few feet away from it, a pair of highbloods are double-teaming a lowblood soldier, and behind them, a motor-powered vehicle is burning slowly. The fuel tank will catch and then explode any minute now. 

"Damn it," she mutters, watching more and more combatants flash in and out of view. "We need to get down there without being followed."

Your eyes are on the burning vehicle. It's turned on its side, and you can see where the flames are, and how fast they're spreading. The visible fuel tank is still safe. But not for long. You nod to it, saying, "If I'm not wrong, that's going to blow in, say, thirty seconds?"

"You want to wait for it to blow?" she asks, considering the pros and cons of the strategy. 

"No," you say hurriedly, knowing that a window of opportunity is closing. "We get there right _before_ the fuel tank catches. Then, anyone that notices us slipping away will be blown away by the blast. Also, we have ten seconds."

That's enough prompting for her. Her good hand snakes around your upper arm, and she takes off, literally jumping _over_ a crop of flames. Two lowblood soldiers notice your mad dash for the manhole and charge towards you, coming up fast on the right. Rose has the manhole cover off---if you're not wrong, the fuel tank has about four seconds left, and if you don't get down there _now_ you're going to be a Kanaya souffle---

The two soldiers are inches away when Rose screams something at you, knots her fist in your shirt, and physically pulls you down the hole with her. Two seconds of free-fall before you hit the stone ledge below, hard. You manage to roll over and stare up through the manhole. For the second time, a huge spike of heat billows down to you, and a ball of fire roars past the hole as the fuel tank finally explodes.

You lie silently on the concrete, the smell of the sewer temporarily covered by the smoke. Rose shifts, half-underneath you. You hope you're safe now. The skittering of a squeakbeast's tiny feet passes nearby, and as the smoke and heat of the recent explosion dissipates, the dirty water that rushes by to your left smells increasingly wretched. 

Feeling like a bruised fruit, you scoot backwards on the dusty ledge and free your rescuer from the weight of your legs. She sits up as well. Her injured hand is elevated, and her forehead bleeds openly. Your upper lip is bleeding as well. You won't complain, of course---you're alive, and barely escaped being filleted. 

"Now what?" you ask, your voice entirely too loud in the quiet sewer. The noises of the battle are audible but not threatening. 

"Now we leave," she responds, gathering herself up and leaning on the metal ladder studded into the wall for support. "Unfortunately, I became very well acquainted with the sewer system when I escaped imprisonment."

You wrinkle your nose in distaste and allow her to throw her arm over your shoulders. Her ankle, which hadn't been exactly perfect when she arrived, has twisted slightly. Nothing too serious, but it wouldn't be smart to place too much pressure on the bone just yet. She limps along, following the curve of the sewer's wall as if she knows exactly where it will lead her. You don't doubt that she does.

"Where are we going?" She may know how to get out, but you want to know where you're getting out _to_

She pauses, considering, before she speaks. "The nearest town under highblood control is about ten clicks in the direction we're going right now. If we get there, assuming that it hasn't been attacked or destroyed, then we'll be given aide. The perks of being a highblood, I suppose." 

"I'll take your word for it."

Your name is JOHN EGBERT.

Mindfang doesn't acknowledge you when you return to the ship. According to the meager crew, she's been locked in her quarters for several nights, not responding to queries from her first mate. You're uneasy. You want to ask her if she's heard anything about the trial---when it's happening, if it's happening right now---but you're not gutsy enough to knock on her door.

With no orders, the crew mostly hangs around below the deck. You've been accepted into their ranks seamlessly. It's all for one aboard a pirate ship, you guess, and you've come to enjoy their company these last few nights. Tonight, the crew has set up camp in the kitchenblock, passing around a barrel of rum and sharing conversation. 

A particularly rugged troll with a scar running from knuckle to shoulder downed half a glass of some alcoholic beverage and then slammed the mug down, belching loudly. "I'll tell you what, there ain't no goddamn way some shitblooded rebels took down the whole fuckin' fleet. There's somethin' goin' on here."

A female Gamblignant that you vaguely recognize says, "Oh, calm down, jackass. There's no conspiracy here. Just some lowbloods with some powerful weapons."

"Hardly," another pirate scoffs. "I found the shells of the missiles, floating in the water afterwards. They weren't some makeshift, barely able to detonate kinds that a lowblood put together in the middle of the desert. They had highblood written all over them."

"What do you think, kid?" the female asks, directing her attention to you. 

"Uh, Mindfang thinks it was Dualscar," you blurt, hoping to provide enough information to swing the conversation towards someone else. You don't like to be scrutinized by them. 

Another pirate whistles. "Jesus, you think? That son of a bitch could get away with it, too."

"Nah," the scarred troll disagrees. "Something like this? He would get creamed by the court."

"Yeah, but could they prove it? That bastard must have the best legislacerator in the world on his side."

The female laughs. "Probably has _three_ of them."

You laugh along with them, your stomach in knots. You wish you could be at the trial. Instead, you're stuck here, drinking yourself sick and wasting time. You excuse yourself and head up to the deck, alone. It's a quiet night. Peaceful. You consider taking a stroll along the bazaar later, when footsteps approach from behind. You recognize those steps.

"Oh, there you are," the Marquise says, voice sugar-sweet. "I have a bit of a task for you. There's much to do, you know, and I can't be everywhere at once. There's an auction going on in the marketplace tonight---won't you be a dear and make a bit of a purchase for me?"

For one thing, you're confused. She's been locked up in her quarters for nearly a week, and when she finally emerges, she finds _you_ and holds out a bag of cold coins. You take them uncertainly. What she wants you to buy is still a mystery, and you ask timidly. The woman is intimidating.

"Such a pity---all of the ship's slaves perished in the attack. Pick one out in the market, won't you? And not one of those eight-sweep grubs. I prefer one that's got some age under her."

Her. So, a female adult. You can do this. You can handle this. You can go buy a slave. Why not? Just breathe deeply and get this over with. 

Mindfang leaves without actually asking, so you walk stiff-legged down the gangplank, off the docks, and into the busy marketplace that hugs the coast. You notice a crowd gathering in the center of the bazaar, jeering and shouting. You can't see over all the heads. Elbowing your way to the front, you're confronted with a slightly raised platform, and a charismatic blue blood calling out over the noise.

"There, there, plenty of merchandise for everyone!" He grins wickedly and motions for the crowd to calm down. "Have your gold out, we're beginning this auction with this useful young olive blood. Bring him out---bidding starts at five hundred coin."

It is now that you realize that you've stumbled upon a slave trade, a stroke of good luck, you suppose. You've never liked the idea of slavery, regardless of blood color, and wish that the practice would be retired. Meanwhile, a pair of guards ascend to the platform, a struggling male troll between them. His hair is unruly, and he's bare chested. 

"As you can see, he's a tough one!" the auctioneer yells, waving his hand at the slave. "Great for manual labor, and whatever else you might want a muscular old chap like him for!" With that, he waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and you nearly throw up.

"Do we have any bids?"

An aristocrat in purple robes is the eventual purchaser, and leads the slave away from the crowd. You wince when the olive blood struggles and immediately receives an electric jolt through the shock collar around his throat. The auctioneer moves things along.

"Our next catch, a springy yellow blood, is better suited for finer work," he says, a barely concealed innuendo in his words. "Bidding will begin at four hundred, now let's see, who'll place a bid? Yes, you sir, in the hat there, I see you. . ."

The yellow blooded female goes to another troll, not the one in the hat, but you're not interested. The third slave brought to the platform catches your attention. There's something very refined, elegant, educated about her. She looks like she's being escorted rather than dragged. Unlike most of the trolls being auctioned, she's well into her adult years, and when the auctioneer notices her being pulled onto the platform, his face falls slightly.

"Ah, yes. Our next item is a bit older than most of what you'll see here. Her exotic jade green blood makes for a very dedicated worker, and. . . ."

You tune him out. The jade blood is staring at him, silently defiant. Her eyes slide over the crowd. Maybe you look as out of place as you feel, because her eyes rest on you for a moment, not communicating anything in particular---just a voiceless curiosity. She looks away, and you listen to the auctioneer.

"Bidding is at five hundred and fifty. Any takers?"

This is the one. She fits the description to a tee, and on top of that, something about her intelligent gaze makes you want to help her. Not that giving her to _Marquise Spinneret Mindfang_ is actually helping her situation all that much.

"This young gentletroll has placed his bid! Have we any objections?"

Apparently no one else is interested in this purchase, because after a moment the auctioneer shrugs and says, "Closed, for five hundred and fifty. I'll be taking that now, son." 

An assistant standing in front of the platform counts the coins you fork over, then nods and hands them to the auctioneer, who pockets them. You wait on the opposite side for the guards to escort her to you. They hand you the remote for the shock collar, which you throw away as soon as you begin walking. Your slave follows closely.

Oh, shit, you just bought a slave. You can't believe this. Buying a _slave_? You must be mad. But you're just doing what you're told, and you were personally struck by the victims on the platform. No one deserves that. You keep your mouth shut, awkwardly reaching the docks with the jade blood in tow, and fumble with a way to speak. How does someone talk to a slave, anyway? You're confused and embarrassed.

"Look, I don't want a slave," you blurt, spinning around on the pier to face her. "I'm just following orders. Sorry."

You just apologized to a slave. Holy. Shit.

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "And whose orders would those be, sir?"

"My captain's," you say, pointing at Mindfang's massive ship that looms a few yards out. "You know. The Marquise Mindfang."

At this, all the color drains from her face, like pulling the plug and watching the water swirl away. You have no idea what about that statement affects her so strongly---maybe she has a history with the Marquise? It's far fetched. There's a good chance she's simply heard about the horrible reputation surrounding the Gamblignants, and doesn't want to be involved. You swallow nervously. 

"Is something wrong?"

"No," she says, voice strained. "My apologies."

You take the lead on the way back up the gangplank and onto the deck, which is ghostly in its vacancy. You wonder if you're supposed to just knock on Mindfang's door and leave her to it, but before you do anything, she sort of appears. 

"Back so soon? Well done---" Her voice breaks off when she sees your guest. Yes, something is definitely going on here. "An interesting choice. You're dismissed."

As you're walking away, she speaks again. "The Dolorosa returns, it seems."

"Yes," the slave agrees. "That seems to be the case, Marquise."


	15. "When the Rich Wage War, it's the Poor who Die." - Troll Jean-Paul Sartre

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS.

"Hold still," you order, trying desperately to contain the tremor in your voice. "There's a lot of blood, Christ . . ."

The Signless is sprawled on the ground, blood absolutely gushing from his side. Equius Zahhak's arrow has sung past its mark and grazed the side of his torso. Fortunately, the arrow went straight through and didn't stick there, but the amount of blood the wound is excreting alarms you. Your medicinal skills are very basic. This is ugly.

It doesn't help that you're operating on a forest floor, or that the risk of infection from all the dirt and leaves and shit is high. But it's the best you can do. You ball up the Signless's tattered cloak and staunch the worst of the bleeding. His wrists and various other places on his body have lacerations from his time in captivity, which must have been rough on his psyche, too. 

Dave's footsteps are barely audible in the background. He was getting worked up by the Signless's sorry state, so you told him to fuck off and keep watch. He complied. Now, he's just completing another circuit through the trees, passing into and out of your vision. Being the guard barkbeast isn't really that important, since this forest has been pretty quiet so far, but since you're basically an ally of public enemy number one, you sure as hell don't tell him to take a break.

"Don't worry," he rasps, blood flaky and dry on his lips. "You're doing fine."

"I know I'm doing fine, asshole," you begin, gearing up for a serious rant. You abandon the notion when he smiles weakly. This guy is a fucking whack-o if you've ever seen one.

You tear the cloak into strips and wrap it around his torso, tying it tightly and sitting back on your heels. Dave appears at your shoulder.

"How is he?" he asks, roughly. The almost-dead guy on the floor means a lot more to him than he does to you.

"Might pull through," you reply, watching the troll fall into what you hope is sleep. "It's just a flesh wound, but there's more blood than you'd think."

Dave nods and revolves slowly in spot. "We can't stay here. It's too close to the amphitheater."

"How do you expect to move him?" You stand, brush dirt from your pants, and meet his shades with your eyes. You ditched the sunglasses he gave you in a creek you passed on the way here. "He weighs more than both of us."

"I'll handle it," he promises. You believe it. "Which way are we headed?"

"The Summoner's main army is probably still getting decimated at the execution," you scoff, avoiding the question you can't answer.

"There's got to be some little lowblood town around here," Dave presses. "Can't you think of somewhere we could go that's not infested with highbloods?"

"No fucking idea," you gripe, scanning the immediate area and finding nothing alarming in the trees. Meanwhile, Dave bends down and slings the Signless's limp body over his shoulders, grunting from the effort. "Let's just put some distance for now, alright?"

"Sounds like a plan," he deadpans, following close behind while he struggles with the added weight of his mentor-thing. 

"You sure you got him?" You turn to look over your shoulder at him, instantly regretting it when you smack straight into a low-hanging branch. It's dark as a motherfucker out here. "I can carry him if you need a break---"

You walk right into something again, eyes still on Dave, and stop in puzzlement, swinging your vision back to the front. Whatever you just collided with sure isn't a tree. It's actually the tattered remains of a tent, the kind your sect of fighters had back in the day, before funds dropped to record lows. The ghostly flaps of the half-torn tent flutter in the breeze.

A few steps forward and your break the tree line, stepping into a tranquil clearing. You mean, it would be tranquil, if not for the dead lowblood soldiers lying on the ground, and the burnt or destroyed tents littered here and there. You clap a hand over your mouth to keep bile down. Whatever happened here (you're guessing a pretty standard highblood attack, since half of the corpses aren't even armed) was ugly. Gingerly, you step over a decapitated body, its head no where in sight.

"Jesus fuck . . ." Dave says hoarsely, taking in the carnage. 

"Yep," you say, for once in total agreement with him.

"Can we get out of here?" he quips, voice strained from effort. "This isn't exactly the pick-me-up my night needs right now."

"Hold on . . ." You stop, think, survey. You're not exactly a perfect soldier, but you've been military long enough to know opportunity when you see it. "We should stay. Just for a little while, at least."

"You're out of your fucking think pan." He bends slightly under the Signless's weight. "I''m not hanging around a goddamn graveyard."

You sigh, immediately losing your patience. "Just use your severely under developed pan for a second, _please_. I see tons of supplies, weapons, and even a few tents here. Maybe even food. On top of that, the highbloods left this mess here knowing that no one would want to camp here again. I bet my bulge that there's not even surveillance on the area. Since we don't know where we're going anyway, don't you _think_ it would be smart to camp out somewhere safe until we do?"

Your amazing and unassailable logic stumps him, and he exhales hard, nodding in compliance. "Alright. Have it your way. Still smells like shit here."

The smell of rotting corpses is pretty bad, but you'd take that over sleeping on the forest floor any day. "Shut up and put him in a standing tent. I'm going to root around for anything useful."

Dave disappears into one of the rare intact tents, and you pick your way across the clearing, the collar of your shirt pulled up over your nose to block the worst of the smell. You find three full medical kits and one half-full one. Good finds. There are other useful items lying around, too, but you're prioritizing. You deliver the kits to the new med-tent.

The Signless, still unconscious, is lying on the canvas floor, while Dave kneels over him, unwinding his bandages. You carelessly shoo him and take his place. You clean the wound, crudely stitch it shut, apply new bandages, and then force a few pills down his throat---pain killers, an antibiotic, some vitamins. There's only so much you can do here. 

Dave stands with his arms crossed in the mouth of the tent, watching over the clearing while you work. He turns when he hears you stand up. "So?"

"He's in better shape," you tell him. "Lucky bastard wasn't hit in any major organs."

"Good." He's more relieved than he lets on. "And? Now what?"

You're already ahead of him, dropping to the floor with your husktop in hand. Time to do what any military troll in a tight spot would do---establish communications with your superior. You open a video chat feature and search for the Summoner's signal, not expecting anything. For all you know, he's still in the amphitheater, or he's dead somewhere. Your next contact is the Ψiioniic. 

Twelve seconds of tense silence, and then he answers.

His expression is frozen in anxiety, and your presence on screen does nothing to help this. "Karkat, I can't talk right now, I'm looking for---"

"The Signless?" you interject, raising one eyebrow.

"Yes, how did you---?"

You turn the husktop and point its webcam at the Signless, swiveling the device back around to point at you. The Ψiioniic's jaw has dropped. He sputters, then regains his senses, firing off questions at the speed of light. "What happened? Where the hell are you? How did you---"

"Yo, Jumpsuit, cut the crap." Dave swoops in over your shoulder and cuts off your reply. "We'll send you the coordinates. How soon can you get us?"

"The Summoner and his trolls have already fled the amphitheater," the Ψiioniic explains, voice taut. "They were almost beaten. There's no telling if I'll be able to find a troop that's nearby and can come get you . . . fuck. Okay, I'll figure something out. Expect help soon."

He disconnects, and you message him with your coordinates. Dave stalks outside. You make sure the Signless is alright and follow your companion into the clearing, wincing when the smell assaults your nose.

"So now we wait?" he asks, not looking at you.

"Now we wait. And hope we don't get picked off like a couple of grubs."

"Super."

~ATH

Your name is JADE HARLEY.

You're a disgusting, deplorable troll. 

You've left someone who _helped_ you for _dead_. If they haven't already killed her, Aradia has to be very close. Because highbloods don't let people live. It isn't their way. 

This is all your fault. 

You barely keep your hysterics down as you crawl through the vents, hearing the highblood guards arrest her all the way back to the hangar. Your hands shake violently when you pry the cover free and drop gracelessly amidst the shuttles. The bay is empty---all of the guards are busy _capturing her_ \---and you pick the lock on Shuttle 11289, which, according to the schedule Sollux sent you, is leaving in less than five minutes.

You stop with one hand on the trunk's handle. 

Are you really just going to leave her here? Leave someone who helped you when no one else would want to, who watched your back in the heart of enemy territory? You want to turn around. March right back to them, save her. But your rational side won't have it. Going back would be suicide, especially when you're inches from freedom. And then there's the matter of the chip.

You have it, and it's not going back to the highbloods. You've always known that trolls will have to die for this revolution. Aradia is one of many. Still, the guilt constricts your lungs every time you take a shaky breath. You're doing this for your people---so why does it still feel wrong? 

The driver approaches from the other end of the shuttle. He nearly spots you, and it's enough motivation to crawl into the trunk and close it behind you. The engine hums around you. No turning back now. Aradia Megido is dead.

You curl up into a ball as the shuttle begins to move.

You stay in the fetal position, ashamed and miserable, for the first few minutes of the ride; then it's time to get down to business. You numbly boot up your palm top and open a chat window with Sollux. This is going to be hard.

\- - gardenGnostic [GG] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA]\- -

GG: sollux  
TA: fuck, ii've been waiitiing for you two troll me for hour2.  
TA: diid you get the chiip?  
GG: i have it  
GG: headed home right now  
TA: 2o, mii2iion 2ucce22?  
TA: great.  
GG: um  
GG: not entirely  
TA: what are you talkiing about?  
GG: well we had just gotten the chip when  
GG: the guards found us  
GG: and i told her not to do this, okay!!!  
GG: but we were about to be caught and aradia  
GG: she pushed me into a vent and then  
GG: they arrested her  
GG: i swear i tried to stop her  
GG: im so sorry, sollux  
GG: this wasnt supposed to happen  
GG: sollux?

\- -twinArmageddons [TA] is now an idle troll! - - 

You feel your eyes prick with tears that won't get farther than that. Slowly, you set the palmtop back in your sylladex and crouch in the trunk. The shuttle's beginning to land. Once the engine cuts off, you give it a minute for the driver to clear out, then climb woodenly out of the trunk. The station is the same wide lot that you visited before this nightmare began. 

You're just about to sneak away when something nudges the back of your knee; you almost scream, until you see Bec, belly to the ground, beckoning you with a flick of his head. You follow.

Bec gets you safely to the whole in the fence, then back into the frigid jungle that lines the other side of the chain-link. You sit down in the snow and try to breathe. You're a revolutionary now. No crying over fallen rebels---everyone knows the risk involved. But your breath still stalls in your throat whenever your lungs expand and deflate. 

Bec nuzzles his nose into your shoulder, comforting, not judgmental. You scratch his cool fur in gratitude and get to your feet. 

"Come on, Bec. We need to get this chip somewhere safe."

~ATH

Your name is NEPETA LEIJON.

You have thirty minutes to make this work.

It's early evening, the machines are just being booted up, and you're counting.

The ratio is uplifting. There are seven prisoners to every guard, or, one hundred and five prisoners and fifteen guards. It's better than you could have hoped for. This is a delicate operation. You need the odds on your side.

No one suspects anything yet, and it has to stay that way. Things are already falling into place---the prisoners are moving into their usual places of leisure before work, the guards are meandering around with the safeties on their weapons off, and the Handmaid is cross-legged on the ground. You yourself are tucked into a corner, two pieces of severe contraband in your hands: a scrap of paper that you stole from one of the machines, and a pen that you pickpocketed from the warden himself.

Both of these items could get you killed. Not that that's stopping you.

You scrawl your message down as quickly as you can, then stow the incriminating pen away and ball up the paper in hand. You can't be caught with this---what you wrote _on_ the paper makes it thirty times more illegal.

The nearest group of prisoners aren't the ones that came with you, which is best. This operation must be silent. Trolls that know you will ask questions.

They're sitting in a circle on the concrete floor, rugged revolutionaries that look at you sideways when you approach. You drop the paper into the lap of the apparent leader and walk away before any words are exchanged. As you return to your corner, you imagine the troll unfolding the scrap, and reading its contents.

_Tonight, we rise. Pass it along._

You're not stupid. You know six measly words on a piece of paper won't start the uprising. No, for that, you'll need a demonstration. Something to spark the fight. 

You reach the Handmaid just as her eyes leave the paper. They're dangerous and excited.

"Is this your plan, little cat?" she inquires, wrapping the paper around the her little finger. You nod determinedly. 

"Stage one," you clarify, dropping to one knee in front of her. You check to make sure there aren't any guards nearby before speaking. "Stage two will need a little more kick."

She grins now, slow and sharp as glass. "I think I can help you with that."

You look around. The groups of beaten prisoners are all discussing your message in hushed tones. It's time to strike, now, while it's in their heads. You look to the Handmaid, who whispers, "Follow my lead."

She makes for two guards who are farther off from their comrades, chatting with each other. Unsuspecting. No one watches you and her except for the lowbloods. They know. The highbloods, however, are still in the dark.

The Handmaid pulls the knitting needles free of her hair, and now you see that they're razor-sharp, filed to points. You know where this is going. 

She puts herself right between the two guards, who don't even lift their weapons in time; she's already flung her arms out and impaled them both, needles through their foreheads. They slide off of the blades agonizingly slowly. For a moment, everything falls to a pregnant silence. Then, your revolution begins.

The prisoners erupt. You can't think of a better word for it, the way they surge up as one and roar every uplifting profanity they can think of. The thirteen remaining guards swing their rifles up and fire. As you've expected, a few prisoners go down immediately, riddled with bullets and trampled under the stampede. But the guards are too cocky. They underestimated the power of one hundred trolls with nothing to lose. 

You climb atop a textile machine and watch the mob reach the frightened, cornered guards, some attempting to reload desperately, others using their rifles as clubs. One of the guards on the fringe is seized by the arms and legs and literally _ripped_ in half. The two halves of his body are fought over by the enraged prisoners. Elsewhere, a guard is crudely decapitated by a string of piano wire that they somehow came across.

The carnage is all well and good, but you have more important matters to consider. The point of this rebellion is not to kill every guard. It's to escape. You need to find a way out, before reinforcements arrive from elsewhere in the prison. Before you can come up with anything, the Handmaid tugs your arm and points to the loading bay. It's nothing more than a massive steel door set into the east wall, where shipments of thread and paper and such come in. Usually it's heavily guarded. Not tonight.

The two of you flit to the door. It's operated by a mechanism that lifts its gargantuan weight upward, disappearing into the perimeter wall. You break open the cover of its control panel and try to make sense of the buttons. The Handmaid, meanwhile, reaches over your shoulder and flips a switch. Instantly, the motors whir and the door begins to ascend.

The prisoners, who've made quick work of the guards, are thrown into a frenzy of victorious cheers. They charge for freedom. You and the Handmaid step to either side of the doors, waiting until every last one of the rebels is free to stand in the doorway and look back on the bloody remains of the prison yard. She's smiling.

"Well done, kitten," she praises, genuinely impressed. "Couldn't have done it better myself." 

"Where are you going now?"

"I have business elsewhere," she says, vaguely. "But I'm sure our paths will cross again somewhere down the road."

She's gone, out into the darkness that surrounds the prison. You stand there for a minute longer. You wonder if letting a mass murderer into the world is a good thing or a bad thing.

In the end, when the pounding feet of reinforcements reaches your ears, you decide that you don't care. You're already gone.

~ATH

Your name is TAVROS NITRAM.

You're running for less than half an hour before they catch you.

Shouting, feet crashing through the underbrush. The forest adjacent to the amphitheater has not given you the cover you need. The voices of your pursuers are garbled, running together, and you can't make out what they're saying. You just run. Your heavy metal legs are fast, but the obstacles are numerous. Every branch you step on cracks like a steel beam.

One of them flings out bolas at you, and the ball-tipped ropes tangle up in your legs, sending you crashing to the forest floor. Your horn knocks against a tree and you black out for half a second. That's enough time for someone to sit on your back, and another troll to kneel down in front of you. His face is slightly shocked.

"Oh, jeez, you're one of us," he half-laughs, realizing his blunder. "Sorry, kid. Thought you were a highblood."

"It's okay," you wheeze. His partner is still on your back. 

"Yo, Rinnie, get off the kid," he orders, helping you up. "What the hell are you doing out here? You a soldier?"

You explain as best as you can. "I escaped from the troll that purchased me, while he was fighting---I thought you were coming to take me back."

"Don't sweat it," he says good-naturedly, clapping a scarred hand on your shoulder. "You can come back with us. The infantry will take you. Won't have to go back to no highblood."

You can't believe your ears. Freedom, and the chance to be around other lowbloods for once, not a bunch of stuffy highblood jerks? You feel a small smile spring up on your face. "That sounds good, thanks."

"Come on, then." The soldier that was sitting on you earlier, Rinnie, leads the way. You and the other soldier follow. He introduces himself as Martel, former cavalreaper turned rebel, and one of the top soldiers in the Summoner's army. 

The survivors of the infantry have grouped together in a copse of trees not far from the amphitheater, spread out around fires that wouldn't dare make it past the intensity of burning embers, some nursing their wounds. You wonder how the battle played out in the few minutes that you spent fleeing.

"Hey, kid, c'mere." You tear your eyes away from the somehow homey scene---it's nice, seeing so many trolls together, with no intention of killing each other---and see Martel at the mouth of a tent, beckoning you to him. You scamper over, ignoring the curious eyes of several rebels. You're not familiar to them.

"Want you to meet someone," Martel says slyly, pushing you into the tent ahead of him.

A gas lantern hanging from the ceiling throws dim orange light over the canvas innards of the tent. It's large enough for a pad to sleep on in the corner, a writing desk, and the troll that's sitting at it. The ceiling, you notice, is considerably high, if only to accommodate the troll's herculean horns. You almost gape at him. It's _him_ , the _Summoner_ , your grubhood hero. You can't believe he's here.

He looks up with some disinterest, busily wrapping gauze around a nasty gash on his arm. "Something wrong?"

"Hey, boss." Martel saves you from having to squeak out an answer. "Kid here just ran away from his owner, you think we got a place for him?"

The Summoner grins, noticing your similar horns. "Nice rack of horns he's got. Doesn't look like much of a soldier, but . . . we'll find something for him. Welcome to the revolution."

"T-thank you," you stutter, cursing your timid voice. He seems amused. 

"You're dismissed. Martel, I need to speak with you. . . ."

You leave, and the tent flap seals them in. But you hear "the Signless" and "missing" before you walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, just two more chapters until something exciting is unveiled. Prepare yourselves for some wondrous plot development, it will be glorious.
> 
> Also, since I need something to do on those occasions when I can't even look at this fic, I'm taking drabble requests. That shit is official.


	16. "War is a Series of Catastrophes which Result in a Victory." - Troll Isaac Asimov

Your name is SOLLUX CAPTOR.

In the end, none of the other lowblood spies establish contact; you assume that something big is happening on-planet and let it go. You have bigger gillbeasts to fry.

Namely, those _things_ you saw downstairs.

They keep flashing behind your eyes when you close them, shaking you more than you've ever been shaken. This is low. This is worse than anything you've ever seen the highbloods do, wartime or not. You won't stand for this. As a spy, it's your unwritten duty to stop bad things from happening, and it's about time you got to it.

You crack your fingers, using your psionics to boot up your computer in the mean time. You don't have a lot of time. When your programs are up and running, you blast through the moon base's firewalls, digging as deep as you can before you find a heavily encrypted vault, jammed with several megabites worth of files. Bingo. You've found nothing so far about the mutated monsters in any of the local databases; this has to be it.

The codes are a match even for you, and you spend at least thirty minutes unlocking the ability to even _approach_ the vault. You're not discouraged. If anything, you like the challenge. It's that much more rewarding when the vault yields its contents to you. Instantly, a myriad of zipped files is practically vomited onto your monitor. They're all named with incoherent strings of numbers, so you run a search for keywords "experiment" and "mutation." 

The number of results is alarming; highlighted pieces of text from several files are presented to you. You scan them with growing concern. Christ, you never once expected something like this. The light from the monitor is white-bright in the darkness of your workstation, and you pray that no one will decide to drop in on you. 

A chunk of information from a particularly hidden file catches your eye.

_The personal notes of Dr. Astrid Worsaw, twentieth day of the fourth perigree after the first celestial equinox:_

  
_The X47 formula we've developed is highly volatile, and sears through solid sheets of metal through minimal contact alone. How a living subject will respond is beyond me. I doubt that anything could possibly live through an injection of X47, but progress can only be made through adequate testing. I am eager to see the results of the experiment later tonight._

_*Update: The formula, upon injection into the vein of a lowblood subject, immediately burned through the vein, muscle, and skin. The acidity of X47 is under construction. The subject was disposed of._

You feel sick to your stomach. 

  
_The personal notes of Dr. Astrid Worsaw, twenty-eight day of the fourth perigree after the first celestial equinox:_

_The new strain of X47 is an immense improvement. Instantly, upon injection, the subject's muscle mass increased by over 200% percent. Cognitive abilities deteriorated at an alarming rate. If the break-down of the think pan isn't fixed soon, the subjects will remain brutes with little to no thought process. I hope to tweak the formula soon._

_The personal notes of Dr. Astrid Worsaw, forty-fourth day of the fourth perigree after the first celestial equinox:_

_My concern for this project is growing. The Empress is demanding success in time for the battlefield, and will stand for nothing less than super-soldiers. The subjects, though they remain more powerful than I'd ever imagined, are still incredibly dense. Some can't even speak in monosyllables._

_Furthermore, they're increasingly out of control. Two guards have already been sent to their graves, and countless more have sustained injuries from handling the X47. More severe physicality is needed to handle the brutes. The subjects now sport lashings from whips and bruises from billy clubs. I desperately pray for a reprieve from this lack of progress._

_The personal notes of Dr. Astrid Worsaw, fifty-first day of the fourth perigree after the first celestial equinox:_

_It seems that this entry will be my last. Against my fevered protestations, the Empress has pulled the metaphorical plug on my research. The moon base where all of my work is kept is going to be converted into a computer lab for a bunch of brainless programmers. As if their contributions could ever equal mine!_

_I worry now for the numerous X47-injected subjects. They're currently locked in high security, chained to the best of our ability. I've been hoping to dispose of them, but the imperial troops are knocking on my door---I won't have the time---bless the poor souls I'm leaving behind. I can only imagine what the Empress will do with them. Mo_

The log cuts off their, as if he stopped typing suddenly, and you close the window slowly. The other documents you scan are equally alarming. The absolute worst of the worst is a sliver of text from a chat between the Imperious Condescension and the commander of the moon base: Brainless or not, those abominations are being deployed as soon as possible. Mercy on the fools that try to fight them.

Something blinks in the corner of your screen---it's your hive-made spyware alert, informing you that someone's attempting to trace the files you're feasting on right now. Shit. They're onto you. You close out of everything (not before e-mailing copies to yourself, first) and jump out of your chair. You stow a few jump drives of useful information in your pockets and kick the door open.

Outside of your secluded cubicle, alarms have yet to be triggered. It's only a matter of time. You stride purposefully down the corridor, not wanting to arouse suspicion but not wanting to be captured, either. Charting a course for the launch deck, you wait in tense silence for the intercom to come on, alerting the whole base of your treachery. It doesn't happen. You're safe, for now.

You flash your ID card at the launch deck's door, which admits you seamlessly. They haven't cut your access to the mainframe, then. Probably trying to dispatch you without a fuss. Well, fuck them. You're going out with a bang.

Inside, one-person escape pods line the walls. Good. All you have to do is hop in, press eject, and then shoot towards Alternia at four hundred miles an hour. Of course, something stays your hand. You keep flashing back to the X47-infected trolls in the max-security room. If you don't do something, they're going to be unleashed on some poor unsuspecting rebels. You can't leave. Not yet.

Down the hall, and a flight of stairs, you find the station's main power station. Everything's wires, wires, wires. There are sparks here and there. Even better. You find a panel in the wall labeled CONVERTER and open it, revealing a circuit board and, more importantly, the converter box, responsible for making raw energy processed in the moon's core into usable electricity. The box is smaller than a computer mouse---and charged up enough to blow up a castle.

You work fast, unscrewing the converter box's cover with utmost care. The "battery pack"---it's not a battery pack, really, but a nuclear core for powering the converter---emanates enough heat to make you back up some. God, this is so dangerous. You could get radiation damage or some shit from this. You hold your breath---one mistake, and you'll blow yourself up---and slip the handy-dandy emergency detonator from your tool belt.

Some background on the detonator and the mini-shock-charge that comes with it: You didn't want either of them. As a cyber-spy, you've always believed that the worst damage you'll ever do is online. When your superior gave you the charge, you dismissed it as a useless staple in your arsenal. Now, you're glad that you didn't toss it when you had the chance.

The battery pack is way too hot to be able to attach the charge to, not without risk of setting it off, and you stick it to the inside of the converter panel. The detonator is suddenly white-hot in your hands. If you accidentally set it off . . . Jesus, you'd nuke the place. Of course, that's the plan. But you'll be gone by then. 

You dart back into the hallway, and are immediately faced with a highblood guard. He must be in the know about you---instantly, his stance changes into an offensive one, and he charges. Collected as ever, you utilize a burst of psionic energy, blasting the guard back at the far wall with barely a blink. Son of a gun should have known better than to come at you like that.

Back on the launch deck, you pause with one foot on the lip of a pod. The detonator is cradled in your palm. Could you do it? Could you send a hundred plus trolls with nothing to do with X47 to their deaths? 

The answer: of course you can.

You strap into the pod, wait for its door to close, and watch the countdown on the screen in front of you. Launching in _5 . . . 4 . . ._

The launch deck's doors are kicked open from outside, hard enough that you hear them hit the wall from within the pod. Guards burst inside.

_3 . . . 2 . . ._

You feel like you're in the middle of a really bad movie. They dash forward, arms out, but it's too late for that. 

_1._

The velocity slams your organs up against your spine as the pod launches free, bulleting into open space. You crane your neck up to look back at the base. It's an impressive structure, chrome towers rising from the pink landscape, and it's almost a shame to swipe your thumb over the detonator. 

For a moment, as is expected, nothing happens. Then, it blows.

Funny thing about nuclear devices---apply enough heat, or a spark, and the explosion is enough to carve a new crater into the moon's surface. In fact, that's exactly what happens. From a safe distance, you watch the mushroom cloud rupture from within the base, tearing through walls and flaring out through the vacuum of space. It's almost pretty. You're a little bit proud.

Satisfied with your work, you settle back into the plummet to the surface and tap into local news feeds. It's about time you figure out what's going on.

~ATH

Your name is ERIDAN AMPORA.

As is the norm these nights, you and Feferi are stalking down one of the city's many alleys. This time around, something catches your eye. 

On the wall, to your left. You beckon Fef over and look closer. A pit of dread hollows out your stomach as your eyes rove over the poster's title---WANTED, For Crimes Against the Empire\---and, below that, two incredibly familiar faces. One that matches your own, and another that's a copy of the girl next to you. 

So, this is it. The Empire isn't giving up.

After the incident with the police officer, things have been quiet, and you admit---you've let your guard down some. Relaxed a little. Convinced yourself that, maybe, they've given up, labeled you as dead meat with no where to go. How stupid. Another mistake to add to the list. With a snarl, you curl your fingers at the tops of the posters and rip them both from the wall, letting the scraps hit the concrete with whispers.

Feferi's face looks pale. You try to keep your calm, but it's hard. You're mad at yourself and your situation. For her sake, you get a grip and turn away. "Come on. We should find somewhere to get some rest."

"Right." 

You're four steps back up the alley when you sense it.

Someone nearby, hiding. Maybe it's their breath. Maybe you just know. In any case, someone's following, in the shadows, and you wonder how long it'll take you to draw your weapon and aim. Before any of these panicked thoughts come to fruition, before you even turn around, something hard hits you from behind. You meet the ground with both knees. A squeak from Fef's direction and the sound of her body slamming to the gritty asphalt confirms that she's being treated to the same as you. 

Something cool and dark is pressed to the side of your head. You know that it's a blade without looking. A hand comes down on your shoulder, pressure. Restraint. Behind you, a gruff voice: "Ampora, is it?"

"Yeah," you confirm, not struggling physically, but weaving a defiant tone into your voice. "What's it to you?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that just yet." The voice---it's male---falls away. You're pressed forward, chest and face smeared against the dirty ground. They're not taking chances. The voice continues. "Don't worry your finned little head, pretty boy."

He addresses someone behind you. "Oi, you! Get off the bitch, you're practically suffocating her."

"Alright, alright," the accomplice groans, as if this is all a huge inconvenience to him. You hear Feferi gasp in a few panicked breaths, and that sets you into a tizzy, thrashing against the foot between your shoulder blades. 

The original voice is fed up. "Your little whore will be fine if you stop _fucking around_ , god damn."

Unconvinced, but backed into a corner, you stop struggling. The male troll lifts his boot. "I've got three guns trained on you if you're thinking about trying anything, punk."

You can't see anything---your head is facing the left wall of the alley, with Fef somewhere to your right and your attackers behind. Think, Eridan. What can you do to get out of this? Probably nothing. You don't even know who these trolls are---they sure don't talk like cops. You reluctantly decide on some good old surveillance, at least until further notice.

"I'm going to say this once," the leader barks, still in the shadows behind you. "I'm going to let you and the whore live."

"On what condition?" These words are nearly buried in the grime under your lips.

"Glad to see we're on the same page," he says, with a smirk in his voice. "Because, pretty boy, the conditions are all that matter for you."

"Get on with it."

A sharp kick is delivered to your calf. "Don't think you've got any say here. I could cut your tongue out, don't you know? Shoot a bullet through every one of your ribs, maybe? Rip your goddamn dick off---"

His use of the word "dick" and not "bulge" makes you think lowblood. Lowbloods have a particularly crude way of speaking, ugly vocabularies that you'd never soil your mouth with. The fact that you've been captured by _rebels_ in a _highblood_ city is even more alarming. How did they get in here? Better yet, how did they find _you_?

"Anyway," the leader goes on, sounding bored. "I'm a rebel soldier, blah, blah, blah, I'm trying to overthrow the Empress, blah, blah, blah. You know the story. Now that we're all chatted up and such . . ." His full body weight is slammed down on your back, squeezing the breath out of you like dental cleaning paste from the tube. "This is where you come in.

"See, I've got a bit of a plan," he goes on, his knee sharp between your shoulder blades. "A great big sect of highblood soldiers is marching through the city later this week, right, left, right, left, you follow? 'Course you do. Now, of course, they're not coming anywhere close to the hovel that my colleagues and I are occupying---they wouldn't dare dirty their boots in the slums of even their own cities, those bastards---and we figure a bit of bait ought to draw 'em out, yes?"

"You want me to be the bait, right?" You want to get a look at his face, but it's impossible.

He chuckles. "No, sorry, chap. You're important, but you're not _that_ important. The little missus over there, though . . . Why, with blood like hers, and the price on her head? The whole lot of 'em will fall right into our hands. You're my bargaining chip---if the whore doesn't do as we say, you're the one that suffers."

"Okay," you cough, the force against your lungs becoming less uncomfortable and more painful. "Okay, we'll do it. But if you hurt her, I swear to God. . . ."

"You'll what?" His voice is right at your ear, breath tickling your fin. "Kill me? You've got nothing, punk. You'll do as I say, when I say it, and I'll _consider_ keeping my hands to myself."

You're absolutely burning with rage, disgust, and helplessness, and it's all culminating into a swirl of anguish in your chest. You fight to keep your voice under control. "Alright. Fine. Can you please get off of me?"

"That's more like it." His big hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head up off the asphalt so fast, you think your neck is going to snap. He stands, dragging you up with him, and then he spins you around, giving you a look at him. His head is shaved. His horns are dagger-sharp, and his irises are a hard maroon. Ugly scars warp from the side of his bare skull to the corner of his mouth, twisting his expression into an eternal half-smirk half-grimace. "How 'bout it, chap? Time to get moving?"

His accomplice comes up from behind, a muscular brown blood with curled horns and two guns in his hands. Bringing up the rear, carrying a third firearm, is another male troll, with a hood drawn over his head. The hooded troll grabs a squirming Feferi and strong-arms her to her feet. 

"Because I'm not a bloody dunderhead, I won't give you my real name," the leader says conversationally, forcing you closer to his band of rebels. "But for the sake of clarity, you can refer to us by our covert names. I'm Red, muscle over there is Smoke, and the hooded bloke is Tower. Don't ask for anything more because you're not getting it."

He wrestles you over to a door in the right wall, knocking hard on the metal with his elbow. Several clicks, and then the point of a spear pokes through, aimed at Red's throat. He laughs in the face of the near-death. "It's me, you son of a bitch. With presents."

You realize, as you're forced into a dark and unfamiliar place, that Red and his gang herded you here; how else would you have ended up on the doorstep of their hiding place? No wonder you felt prying eyes all through the night. You feel Red's blade against your shoulder as you stumble through a dimly lit entryway, up a flight of creaking, dilapidated stairs, and into a blandly furnished, equally dark block.

Red shoves you inside and blocks the doorway. "You'll be staying here until further notice, aye? Have a nice day."

"Wait!" You spin around, still kneeling, and lunge for the door, but it's already closing. You see Feferi's terrified expression for a fleeting moment, then you're alone. You collapse on the splintery floor and take steadying breaths. This is not good. This is not good at all.

~ATH

Your name is ROSE LALONDE.

Things go, to put it simply, exactly as planned. 

You and Kanaya reach the highblood town as predicted, emerging from the sewers on the outskirts of town. To your surprise, a torrent of survivors from the attack have also arrived, streaming down the main road into the safe zone. You join up easily. Now, it's only a matter of making it through intense highblood inspection, and praying you aren't turned away, or worse, culled.

The soldiers in the sleepy town are already informed of the situation, and are busily checking the blood and status of each and every refugee in the square. You and Kanaya find a place in line and wait in tense silence.

"Is everything going to be alright?" she asks, voice low. Soldiers are passing left and right, and you two are inching closer to the front of the line, where a crude desk has been erected, and an official inspects each survivor.

"You'll be fine," you say, somewhat evasively. 

Her eyebrows arch towards her hairline. "And what about you?"

You chew on the answer before presenting it, not wanting to word it the wrong way. "Well, by definition, I failed my mission, and by running away after escaping execution, instead of going to the highbloods for culling, I certainly didn't do myself any favors. But I might be able to get out of this. The officials here don't seem to be higher rank than me---I may be able to pull rank and buy some time."

"Oh, dear." She worries her lip between her fangs. You give her wrist a reassuring squeeze and point slightly. You're next in line.

The female behind the desk is decorated, but you can tell she doesn't have much power. She's only a teal blood, for God's sake. Her eyes widen at the sight of your gills. Seadwellers don't busy themselves in useless towns like these, especially not military seadwellers like yourself. The troll clears her throat and recites, "Name and blood?"

"Kanaya Maryam, jade green," Kanaya jumps in. The teal blood looks at her with distaste. Not only did Kanaya just interrupt you, a seadweller, but she said that from several rungs down the hemospectrum. You don't care. The official does.

"Yes," she says, critically. "Hold out your hand." 

She pricks the skin of Kanaya's palm, checking that the blood that wells up is indeed authentically jade; then she waves her aside. Eyes tense, Kanaya watches you from a few paces to the right. The teal blood instantly begins to flatter you.

"I apologize for the delay, ma'am," she says hurriedly. "Name and blood, please?"

"Lieutenant Rose Lalonde. Violet."

The name Lalonde peaks her interest, but she can't seem to place it. Confused, she beckons for another official, and exchanges a few hushed words. Their faces grow serious. The teal blood stands up, and her superior moves around the desk. His tone is respectful---he's navy, still not a match for you---but still authoritative. 

"Could I speak to you over here, Lieutenant?"

Kanaya's expression shatters into panic, but you motion for her to stay calm as you follow the official to the side. He looks worried. 

"I'm deeply sorry about this, ma'am," he murmurs, eyes shifting. "But the fleet has put a recall on your status. You're no longer enlisted. According to these records, you're to return to main base for further instruction."

This is exactly what you'd feared. However, you're nothing if not collected, and you respond calmly. "I understand. What are your orders?"

"I'm to have you escorted to base. Other than that, I have nothing." He looks torn between his duty to respect you under the hemospectrum's law, and his instinct to look down on you now that he's of higher military status. You don't blame him.

"May I have a word with my friend over there? Before I go?"

His face looks like it's been flattened. "Of . . . course. Go right ahead."

The troll's strange behavior puts you on edge. You step out of the way with Kanaya, whose skin has gone white with worry. She darts a glance back at the official. "What's going on?"

"Don't worry," you lie. "It's nothing. Routine debriefing, since I haven't connected to command since I went dark. I'll have to leave, but I'll be back in a few night's time."

You don't know if any of this is even remotely true. For all you know, you'll be thrown in prison, or, worst case scenario, culled. You don't want to think about that. Instead, it's easier fibbing to Kanaya, if only to make her feel better. She doesn't look totally convinced. 

"Are you absolutely certain?"

Not in the slightest.

"Completely."

She hugs you goodbye, and you return the gesture. You're sure you'll see Kanaya Maryam down the road sometime. Hopefully.

A young soldier guides you out of the immediate area, to the military outpost his unit has set up behind the town. Uniformed trolls mill around the camp. The troll helps you into an armored vehicle, then climbs into the driver's seat, flaring the engine to life with a twist of his key. You pretend that you're still a lieutenant and this soldier is escorting you to a meeting. Not imminent punishment.

~ATH

Your name is TEREZI PYROPE.

Tonight, the courtblock is presided over by the Imperious Condescension herself.

You're sitting at the litigant's table, with Vriska on your left. Her hands are cuffed in front of her. She smells anxious. Behind you, you hear the titters of the waiting diplomats, prepared for an execution. They expect you to fail. You'll prove them wrong. 

On the other side of the aisle that splits the block, the indicter's table seats the Orphaner and a seasoned legislacerator you've never heard of. No matter. You have everything you need, locked up in your think pan and in your sylladex. This won't be easy---but it won't be impossible. The ultimate goal isn't far.

The Condescension stands, recites the Alternian alma mater; then she's seated, and the congregation follows her lead. The trial is set to begin.

Vriska leans over to you, whispering. "You sure you got this covered?"

"Extremely."

The Condesce, somewhat disinterested, waves towards Dualscar's legislacerator. "The indicter may begin prosecution."

The older troll stands, ambles up to the stand with the swagger of someone who's too confident for their own good; like everyone else in the block, he highly underestimates you. "The Orphaner has accused the litigant, Admiral Serket, of treason against the Empire. A very serious claim, your Imperious Condescension."

"And?"

"It's entirely justified. The Admiral deserves the blade of justice."

_Yeah, right._

"And what is your proof? Have you any witnesses? Evidence?"

"Of course," he replies, striding back to his table. He shuffles easily through his notes, clucks his tongue, and then turns around. "I call Keenin Pollier to the stand."

A nervous troll in what smells like an usher's uniform scurries up to the stand, takes the oath, and sits down. You recognize the scent of his features---he frequently visits your block, for room maintenance and other such services. What he has to do with this is beyond you.

"Mr. Pollier," the old troll begins loftily. He's so full of himself it hurts. "You are eight sweeps old, correct?"

"Yes, sir." The kid's voice is timid, shaky, but underneath that, there's something else. Covered up.

"And you've been working aboard the flagship for how long?"

"A sweep and a half, sir."

"Hm. Now, in that time, have you ever been assigned to the service of Admiral Serket?"

The kid's eyes dart left and right. Probably lying. "Yes, sir."

"Please explain."

"Well, usually I'd just do maintenance around the block and stuff like that," he clarifies, scratching his arm anxiously. 

"Indeed." The old troll stops his pacing, turning back to the stand and his witness. "Have you ever witnessed anything suspicious in the Admiral's block? Something she attempted to hide, perhaps?"

Instantly, Pollier's demeanor changes; his words are less shaken, and undoubtedly rehearsed. Dualscar is paying this kid off for sure. "Once. I saw a stack of papers, torn and dirty, tucked into the space between the wall and the recuperacoon."

"Did you attempt to read them?"

"I wanted to, sir," Pollier says earnestly. Stupid little fake. "I saw words like 'revolt' and 'plans' on them, and thought they might be important. I tried to take them, but she almost saw me, and I was afraid she might hurt me."

"And by she, you mean the Admiral?"

"Yes, sir."

The old legislacerator's eyebrows float upwards. "Hm. Would you label her as a particularly violent troll?"

"She's scary, sir." For once he sounds genuine.

You're already bored of this. It's made-up slander, tearing down Vriska's reputation when it's already low as it is. _Violent?_ It would be suspicious if she _wasn't_. That's just how highbloods are. Rolling your eyes at the ridiculous proceedings, you await your turn impatiently.

The Condesce seems interested. "Have you recovered these supposed documents?"

"Ashes were found in the litigant's block earlier this week." The old troll holds up a plastic bag of ashes that could have come from anything. This is laughable. "I suspect that she attempted to get rid of evidence."

"Proceed."

"Thank you." The legislacerator sets the bag down and returns to the witness. "Mr. Pollier, do you have any parting statements?"

"I do." Taking a deep breath, he adds, "I think the Admiral is a lowblood spy."

Conversation springs up around the room. You ignore the words, determined to keep your head clear. Pollier's parting line is definitely staged. A sharp one-liner that gets people on Dualscar's side. It's so elementary, you're almost insulted.

"The prosecution rests." The old troll sits down. Suddenly, all eyes are on you.

The Condesce in particular is staring intently. "The litigant may begin their counter-argument."

You breathe deep, then stand. This is your moment. "Thank you, your Imperious Condescension. I call Orphaner Dualscar to the stand."

The crowd's whispers fester. Slowly, almost defiantly, Dualscar lopes to the stand and sits down. No oath.

"General," you say, leaning heavily on your cane. "How long have you been aboard this flagship?"

"About two perigrees."

"This is interesting," you say, lightly, "because about two weeks ago, security feeds around _your_ ports identified you in to be in the area, just hours before the Gamblignants were attacked."

His lip curls. "The loss of the Gamblignants, though it is tragic, has nothing to do with this. And access to surveillance isn't for the public. I could have _you_ on trial for this."

"Hardly." You rap your cane against the stand, startling a few people. "Under imperial law, I am allowed access to any data that's relevant to my investigation. Your defensiveness is interesting."

He falls silent. You move on. "You see, the Gamblignants' defeat has _very_ much to do with this. The Admiral herself was present, as well as Marquise Spinneret Mindfang---your kismesis, if I'm not mistaken?"

"You're not."

"But, of course, crimes of passion are common in caliginous affairs," you power through, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "Sometimes the kismesissitude can end badly."

"Are you accusing me of something, Counselor?" the Orphaner asks, low and dangerous.

"I am." You turn your back on him and face the crowd. "I believe General Dualscar is behind the attack on the Gamblignant fleet."

The diplomats erupt at the bold statement, as you've anticipated. The Orphaner roars something that you tune out. His counselor jumps up and shouts an objection, but everything is silenced when the Condesce's eyes flash, deadly, and her teeth show for a brief second. That's enough to put everyone back in line. You are the only one standing.

"Counselor," the Condesce says, her voice laced with poison. You're not nervous. "Please explain."

"The decimation of the Gamblignants was immediately passed off as a lowblood attack, correct?" Murmurs of agreement. "However: the facts dispute this claim. Shells of missiles collected from the water immediately afterwards disappeared---a mistake, or deliberate destruction of evidence? And, if a rebel group of lowbloods staged such a massive attack, how did they escape without a trace? Why is it, General, that _you_ were seen at the port that evening---but not a _single_ rebel soldier was? You're an able military strategist. Could you explain?"

He's boiling mad, you can absolutely smell it. The entire block is silent. "They---the rebels---must have fired from a remote location. The missile shells were lost in transit. Happens all the time."

The answer is flat, and he knows it. A few whispers permeate the quiet. "Perhaps. But I've reviewed the tapes, and not once is suspicious activity recorded. Later, I traced the source of the missiles---they came from the center of the port. How could lowbloods possibly have infiltrated your supposedly safe zone without being noticed, set up their equipment, and launched a brutal attack? This isn't even accounting for the missiles themselves, which were expensive, highblood-made, and definitely not readily available to a group of terrorists---"

"Objection," the old legislacerator interjects. He's shaken. "This is not relevant to the case, the counselor is attempting to slander my client---"

"I'll let it go," the Condescension says shortly, effectively silencing the troll. "Counselor Pyrope, you may proceed."

"Thank you." You hold your cane in both hands, parallel to the floor, and twist it around. "Now. If you're wondering what the attack has to do with this case---I'll explain. It's cause and effect. Dualscar, as many of you know, has always been looking to one-up his kismesis, especially when the war heightened the playing field---so, what better way to do it than take away her resources? Cut off the fleet, cut off the Marquise's power."

You point the cane at the General's quivering Adam's apple. "You never meant for Mindfang to die in the attack, which explains how only her ship survived. With her physical strength destroyed, you knew that the only way to put her out of commission permanently was to discredit her politically---and the Admiral's arrival was the perfect excuse, wasn't it? A way to get at Mindfang without even leaving the ship. A dream come true.

"Those letters were forged, inevitably. The Admiral---and by extension, the Marquise---committed no crime. The real offender here is General Dualscar. The litigant rests."

The Condesce's face finally smells involved. She sits up straighter, looking around the courtblock before making her decision. This is nerve-wracking. You return to your seat, and the cool blue of nervous sweat smells sweet on Vriska's temple. Your case is good---but it's not perfect. Too many assumptions, not enough hard fact. You have nothing to do but hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE CHEERS FOR SHITTY CLIFF HANGERS AND POOR UPDATE SPEED


	17. "We Know More About War than We Know About Peace; More About Killing than We Know About Living." - Troll Omar N. Bradley

Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA.

You're crouched, both hands getting their dig on in the dirt, and Zahhak stands ramrod straight behind you, stiff as bone. Motherfucker needs to loosen up. You don't brush the filth off your hands---fuck if you care, man---and scan the trees. This has got to be where the targets are. It's the only logical explanation for their sudden disappearance; the three wouldn't have survived in the harsh, highblood cities nearby, and would have gone for the amphitheater's adjoining forest, the only safe bet.

Now the real challenge is finding them. After that, it'll be easy---you'll be able to cut the two smaller ones to pieces, rip them to shreds, so long as you leave the Signless alone. A damn shame. He, more than any of them, deserves the bitchin' poetic justice you got spilling out of your preach-hole. But, you can be patient. For a little bit. 

"We should begin moving," your companion says tersely. He's trying very hard not to show any emotion. He doesn't like you, you know. And that's cool. That's cool as motherfucking ice. You just want the added muscle, and when everything's said and done? You might even let him live. Maybe.

"Maybe you should _shut your goddamned mouth_ and let me do the thinking here, right?" You fix him with an unsettling stare and walk in the opposite direction. His footsteps follow close behind. "I'd hate for you to forget your place."

He's immediately silenced, and it's almost too easy. He bends like a motherfucking twig when you put a little gusto in your voice. Really, you're using him. You just need a tough troll to be bait while you go for the kill. Not that taking all three of the mutants would be that much of a challenge for you---you just want to make things right. Make everything run smooth as moobeast butter. 

He hears it at the same time as you---distant, barely discernible voices, but voices all the same. You smirk. He grimaces. Things are about to get interesting. You creep as close as you can manage, restraining yourself to the last trees before a wide clearing carves its way across the landscape. Death and decay is everywhere. Spirit uplifted by the lowblood bodies on the floor, you hit the dirt and crawl forward, straining to hear.

They come out of the tent, exchange a quiet word; then _he_ goes back inside---the one whose name you don't even want to think. Former moirail---until you saw what a fucking waste of space he is. You're going to enjoy bashing his face in. Now all that's left outside the tent is the one with dumb shades and a shitty sword, keeping watch like he thinks he's the shit. You're here to prove him wrong.

"Here's the plan, motherfucker," you whisper, your voice so raspy it hurts your auricular sponge clots a little. "I'm going to take care of Mr. Cool Shit over there and you're going to make sure the other little fuckers don't get away. Think you can handle that, or do I need to fucking simplify? I can lay this shit out like a bitchin' equation for your depraved think pan if that's what I gotta do---"

"I understand."

"Motherfucking salty." You get to your feet, grip your clubs, and jerk your head towards the target. "Let's kick it."

~ATH

Your name is FEFERI PEIXES.

You don't sleep much; mostly you toss and turn through a slew of daymares, waking up periodically into a reality that's nearly as bad as your dreams. No sopor, no peace. The lack of furniture in the room doesn't help, either---curling up on a hardwood floor leaves you with splinters and aching muscles when the moon has finally risen and your holding block's door swings open.

You move into a defensive position immediately, even though you have no way of fending off your captors in your malnourished state. Your visitor is the rebel nicknamed Tower, still hooded. You've yet to see his face, but you bet it's horribly disfigured or something equally befitting of a lowblood insurgent. He, at least, isn't terribly aggressive; he catches you by the arm and drags you along without intentionally causing excess pain.

Back down the rickety stairs, and into a horribly dim livingblock. You can't even see a foot in front of you. Vaguely, you make out dark shapes of rebels moving silently past, and you feel awfully exposed. Tower keeps a firm hand on both of your wrists. 

Unexpectedly, a light flares on overhead, and you duck your head, blinking against the sudden brightness. The unfurnished livingblock is thrown into sharp relief. The whole of the safe hive looks like it's never been cleaned or cared for in all of its sweeps, and you wrinkle your nose as a squeakbeast scurries past. 

Red, the rebel leader, has got Eridan by the hair near the front door. "Glad to see everyone up so bright and early! Now, if you'll all listen up, I'm sure everything will run smoothly. The soldiers will be marching through at exactly ten. By that time, we'll be stationed nearby, and the missus over here will walk all calm-like right in the middle of it, yes?"

Tower twists your arm slightly. "Yes."

Eridan's eyes meet yours, desperate and panicked, and for all of his military training you can tell that he's really just a scared young troll who won't be able to get you out of this; unless you come up with something, this lowblood plot will play out exactly as planned. And, really, is that such a bad thing? Less highblood authorities to bring you back to your ancestor. You ought to be thanking these rebels. 

"Then let's move out."

Out on the street, an inconspicuous vehicle with blacked-out windows idles on the pavement. This is a quiet part of the city, and no one is around when you and Eridan are hauled into the back and thrown carelessly to the floor. The seats have been ripped out. Tower and two rebels you've not been introduced to crouch against the back doors, watching you silently, daring you to try anything. Red is driving; the engine chugs to life.

The vehicle now moving, you sit up and lean against the back of the passenger's seat, hyper-aware of the eyes on you. Eridan joins you. "You okay?"

You nod, for fear of moving your lips and making a sound.

"We'll be fine," he promises. "I'll think of something."

You make a noncommittal sound in the back of your throat and survey your options. There's a divider between the driver and where you're being penned, but there's still the matter of the rebels here with you; you're outnumbered two to three. Of course, with a weapon, your chances would be heightened. Not that you have anything even close to dangerous in your possession. 

But Eridan does.

You pull your knees up to your chest and fold your arms over them, dropping your head and blocking your mouth from the rebels' eyes. Best to be sneaky about this. "Eridan."

He knows that you're being covert and joins in flawlessly, voice dropping to below a whisper. "Yeah?"

"When the opportunity is there," you murmur, against your forearm, "we're going to attack."

"That's crazy."

"Not totally. We have a secret weapon."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

You don't answer, because the vehicle has slowed to a stop and Tower has got your by the top of your arm. The other two rebels wrestle Eridan out through the back doors after you. This new area of the city is bustling, and a few curious eyes glance your way as you're hauled off the busy sidewalk and into a nondescript building. It seems to be scheduled for demolition---old, abandoned, and falling apart in some places. 

They throw Eridan to the dusty floor. You're kept standing. The rebels spread out around the block, twitching curtains back to look out onto the street every now and then. Red himself has one boot casually resting on Eridan's stomach and a pair of knives twirling in his calloused hands. Something's about to happen.

"Nearly time, now," he says, excitedly. This is all good sport for him. "You hear that? That rhythm? That's them, coming this way . . ."

Now, as you watch, rebels wheel carts in from a backroom; this must be a permanent hiding place of theirs. The carts are laden with weapons. Mostly explosives, with a good number of other gristly firearms and blades. You pale at the sight. Red, giddy with anticipation, darts over and paws through the loot, coming up with what you're quite certain is a rocket launcher. These highbloods don't stand a chance.

You distantly hear marching feet. They're going to be throwing you out there any minute. 

"Play your part well, sweetheart, and you'll walk free," Red purrs, the tip of one of his knives tilting your chin up. 

You want to spit in his face or something equally defiant, but he's already gone, and you're dragged to where Eridan is sitting. The rebels are getting fidgety, and the pounding of feet is getting louder. You don't have a lot of time. 

It's a god-save when nearly all of the lowbloods arm themselves with projectile explosives and head to the floor above, to have an aerial view of the attack. All that's left down here is Red, Tower, Eridan and you. These odds are good. You can work with these. Red and his companion have their backs to you, conversing quietly by the doors. You have to make this fast. 

"Eridan," you whisper. He looks at you curiously. 

"Wanna tell me your master plan now, or are you goin' to leave me in suspense?"

"Well, you won't like it exactly," you hedge, realizing how terrible this is of you. "It won't exactly be pleasant for either of us."

His curiosity becomes confusion. "What are you talkin' about. . . ?"

"I'm really sorry, okay?"

"Wwhat---"

You clap a hand over his mouth to silence him, grab his left horn in a firm grip, and snap it off.

He screams against your palm, a muffled agony, but it's too late to do anything about it. Most of his horn has come away in your hand. He convulses in pain, falling away from you, and you promise you'll worry about him later. Right now, you finally have something to work with. You test the point of his horn; it's sharper than you could've hoped for.

Red and Tower finally take notice on the troll writhing in pain beneath you, and you hold the horn out of sight, fawning over him. The two rebels shove you away and inspect him.

"What the hell happened to him?" Red barks, looking at you over his shoulder. Your weapon is behind your back. "If this a trick, I'll have your head, you little---"

"Hey, Red," Tower says slowly, nudging his superior. "Didn't this runt have both horns when we snagged him?"

Realization dawns on their faces, but it's too late for them, too; you've already leaped forward and sunk Eridan's horn through the back of Tower's neck, nearly separating his head from his body. Yellowish blood splatters everywhere as you draw the point away.

 _"You stupid bitch!"_ Red reaches for a knife, lunges, and you sidestep easily. He slashes at you again---this time a line of tyrian purple is inked across your collar bone---and barely misses a fatal blow. You barrel into him, not doing enough to knock him over entirely, but giving you an opening. You run him through with the horn. It gets him in the abdomen, and his eyes bulge out, maroon blood leaking from his skin.

He falls away, and you bend down to check on Eridan, who's gasping for breath and staring at you in horror.

"You . . . you just---" he begins, incoherently. "My horn---"

"I told you you wouldn't like it," you say apologetically, running a comforting hand through his hair. "Now let's go."

You're just thinking about how you're going to get past the highbloods as you help Eridan up. He's shaking, leaning heavily on you for support, which you guess you can understand. Very sensitive nerves run up from the think pan to the horns---you wouldn't want one of your horns snapped off, either. (In your defense, you couldn't have used your own horns. They're dull and shorter than his.)

You shoulder open the door, Eridan hobbling along next to you, and basically stop traffic. Highbloods that have gathered on the sidewalk to watch the march stare in shock. The street is cleared, but only because a staggering number of imperial soldiers is approaching in tight formation. You guess they should be thanking you---you've practically saved them from annihilation, after all. Right?

Wrong.

How stupid of you, to think you've fixed everything, when you've really just fulfilled their plans to the letter---by exposing yourself, you realize, you've done exactly what Red wanted. The spectators point, recognizing you. You're wanted trolls here. You've messed up. The soldiers have slowed to a stop, their commander holding up one hand and eyeing you from beneath his shako, the plume on top quivering in the wind. 

Everything is falling apart. This couldn't be worse, not with the civilians backing away and the armed soldiers taking notice. You suppose you're lucky that the rebels have stayed their hands, and with Red dead, they're probably going to call of their attack. You know you need to run before they figure out their next course of action.

_"Oi!"_

Oh, god. 

You turn slowly, then tilt your head back, looking up towards the last voice you want to hear. Framed in the second-story window of the building is none other than the rebel leader Red. You've gotta hand it to him---he must have dragged himself, bleeding profusely and close to death, all the way upstairs to where his rebels are waiting. 

"Enjoy the fireworks, cunts!" 

He disappears from view, and shutters all along the second floor of the building are thrown back, filled with the tips of rocket launchers and gun muzzles. Your mouth falls open. Eridan, despite his haze of pain, has the sense to throw himself on top of you, just as the order to fire is given.

~ATH

Your name is DAVE STRIDER.

Karkat disappears into the tent, to check on the Signless, and you stand guard out front. You try to breathe deeply, but the stench of death is way too strong. You can't relax. On top of that, you feel eyes on you, and it's making you hella nervous. 

It's been a long night and you're dead on your feet. After a while, you sit on an abandoned backpack and let your hands hang between your knees. You don't want to let your guard down, but you're exhausted. And you've deserved some rest. Hopefully, someone will get you out of here safely, and you'll be able to slide into a recuperacoon somewhere and forget about everything. Yeah, right. Talk about wishful thinking.

The feeling of being watched is more intense. You get to your feet reluctantly and take a few steps away from the tent, testing the silence. You can't find any physical signs of intruders, but you've got a bad vibe from standing there in the open, exposed. The trees yield no dangers. Your eyes linger on the space between two trees---really bad feeling, now---when you notice it. The lightest rustle. Someone's there, if the shadowy globs you make out are any indicator.

You do nothing to suggest that you've spotted them. That would be stupid, and you're not an idiot. You pretend to be interested in the stars. Kick a bone out of the way. Unhurriedly, you amble back to the tent and duck your head in. Karkat's changing the Signless's bandages. He glances up curiously.

"There's someone out there," you say, quietly, not to alarm him. "Could be nothing. I don't know. If anything, take him and run."

Karkat's eyes widen, but he nods, and you let the flap fall. The dark globs are still there, if you squint. Well, fine. Let them make the first move. You're exposed, but if they try to come at you, they can't be sneaky about it, either. 

This is taking too long. You draw your sword and let it lean on your shoulder, tapping your foot lightly. You make it clear---you know they're there. And you're hostile. There's a moment of silence, and then they come out of the woodwork, two of them, both big, both highblood, both intimidating. The one with the clown makeup looks deranged, and the buff one looks uncomfortable.

"Sup, motherfucker," the clown deadpans, face wiped of emotion. You're getting uneasy just looking at him. "Room for two more?"

"Sorry, I don't play nice with others," you say bitingly, sliding into a defensive stance. Feet apart, sword in both hands. _Begging_ him to come after you.

"Well ain't that just the bee's knees."

He shoots forward, faster than you would've thought, and raises both clubs. You block them with an upward thrust of your sword. The muscular guy takes the opportunity to skirt around you and your attacker, aiming for the tent; you shove the clown out of the way and lunge for him, barely missing a fatal blow to the back of his neck. He spins and sends a fist flying; you barely step away in time. 

Karkat decides this is a good time to appear out of the tent, jaw dropping at the sight. "Oh, for the love of every ever-loving deity in the godforsaken sky---"

"Will you just shut up and get him out of here?" you snap, crashing your elbow into the muscular troll's jaw and slashing at the clown in one swift movement. 

Karkat hesitates, then dashes back into the tent. He reemerges with the Signless thrown over his shoulder. You do your best to distract the two highbloods, but it's getting harder; you're already tired as it is, and they're both vicious fighters. Before you know it, the muscular one has slipped away, into the trees, hot on Karkat's trail. You pray that the little fucker has enough sense to find somewhere to hide, because you know he won't be able to run from the highblood for long, not with the Signless weighing him down.

You're left with the subjugglator.

He's a terror to behold, covered in blood from all over the spectrum, hair a mess and laughsassin robes torn. He's relentless. Every time you block a club, there's another one to join it; and when you land a hit, he lands three. It's hopeless. You're already beaten, and you both know it. 

His club smashes into your knee, not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to make you kneel. He seems satisfied.

"That's more like it," he whisper-shouts, circling you like a finbeast. "Lowblood SCUM kneeling before their highblood BETTERS. This is motherfucking poetic justice, you know? This is how it should be. All the _fucking_ time."

"Just kill me if you're going to. I don't want the damn eulogy."

"With pleasure," he says generously. He reappears in front of you, raises a club, and crashes it down over your skull.

~ATH

Your name is VRISKA SERKET.

"I've reached a decision," the Condescension says to the courtblock. 

You raise your head and stare in defeat at her, knowing deep down that there's no possible way you can get out of this; Terezi is a damn good legislacerator, but you're beyond help. Dualscar is untouchable. You know it, he knows it, everyone knows it. This is all a show for the highblood bastards seated behind you---the trimming on your imminent execution.

The cuffs that have been biting into your wrists for the whole trial finally break skin, and you watch beads of blue pool around the metal and drip silently to the table. Terezi sees, or smells it, you don't know how the fuck she does it---in any case, her head turns towards you quizzically, but the suspense soon draws her attention back to the Empress. 

A glance at Dualscar's smug face confirms that this is hopeless, and you sink in your chair, waiting for the order of death. For once, you really are innocent. For all the crimes you've committed in the past---mostly sins of youth, of course, but sins nonetheless---your ultimate punishment is for nothing. It's deliciously ironic. You almost smile. Goddamn, are you a cynic. 

"The evidence presented on both sides of the courtblock is staggering," the Empress begins. "One could be swayed by the sheer amount of information alone. I have not been, however, and have made my choice based on what I've heard. The litigant and the indicter will now stand."

At Terezi's urging, you get to your feet, feeling eyes burning into your back. The Orphaner does the same. The Condesce sits up a bit straighter in her chair, uncrossing her legs as she delivers judgement. The block is dead silent.

"The General's claims against the Admiral are false," she proclaims, and your knees almost buckle from relief. This can't be happening. You can't seriously be getting out of here. "General Dualscar himself is ruled guilty of attacks against the Gamblignant fleet."

Terezi smirks confidently. You feel your own lips morphing into a grin. 

"However."

Your grin falls off and shrivels up somewhere near your feet.

"To ensure that the Admiral is truly a highblood confederate, punishment will be bestowed."

You whip your eyes to Terezi, who looks as confused as you feel. She says nothing, and the Empress continues: "The Admiral will lose her vision eightfold in exchange for her advocacy of highblood regime."

You almost yell something that could get you killed, but Terezi interjects on your behalf. "If I may speak?"

"You may."

"Is just punishment going to be allotted to the indicter for his crimes as well?"

The Condesce purses her lips. "I was getting to that, thank you, Counselor. Perhaps you should try not to rush the proceedings and be thankful that I have not ordered a death sentence."

"Of course, your Imperiousness."

You want to punch Terezi in the face---that isn't helping you at all, you're about to lose your eye---when the Condesce turns to Dualscar. "As for the Orphaner. Though his crimes are great, he has served as a most _trusted_ servant to me for many sweeps. He will be fined ten thousand coin for his infractions. No other punishment will be issued."

Bullshit. _8ullshit!_ Ten thousand coins is nothing to a guy like him; really, it's just an excuse for the Condesce to line her pockets with gold he would give her willingly in a heartbeat. If anything, _he's_ the one that deserves to get his face mutilated. Your breathing becomes light and rapid, blood pusher fluttering in your chest. Shit. Terezi did good, but she hasn't salvaged this completely.

"Bring the litigant forward, to receive the justice of the courtblock."

Two burly bailiffs appear at your elbows, taking your arms and guiding you up to where the Empress is sitting. You don't struggle. There's no way to stop this, not with _her_ there, not with Dualscar, not with a fucking million highbloods waiting for blood. You're forced to your knees on the tile. The bailiffs move away, and she leans forward in her seat, her trident glittering in her hands. 

"Don't be nervous," she whispers, so that the rest of the block won't hear. Just you. "Now you're just like your dearest Marquise."

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. "The Marquise _has_ vision eightfold."

Now, she smiles, and it makes shivers run down your spine. "Not for long."

There's a flash of gold, and the trident spears towards you. You don't have time to blink. Two of the spires of the trident miss you completely, but the third hits its mark---and when she draws it back it's coated in two inches of cerulean blood and the gooey remains of your left eye.

You're not as tough as you say you are, you guess, because you cover the empty socket with one hand and scream; the sound is painful in your throat and on your ears, but hell if you care. Your fucking _eye_ is gone, there's blood spewing from the socket, and everyone is just _watching _. Shaking, you nearly collapse forward, but throw your other hand out at the last second and hold yourself up from the floor, trying (and failing) to breathe normally.__

__The Empress looks down at you like some unpleasant kind of sea creature. "You're free to go."_ _

__You're too proud, too stupid, to just lie there and let someone else come along and drag you away. You get to your knees, then your feet. One hand still held fast against where your left eye _used_ to be, you lock gazes with her---or at least, you do what you can---and turn around. The highbloods watch with grim satisfaction. You say nothing, just walk as quickly and steadily as you can towards the exit; it doesn't work out exactly, not with you stumbling a lot and bumping into things and trying not to cry, and you don't even resist when Terezi appears and takes your arm._ _

__You don't say anything all the way up to your block, just keeping the bleeding stemmed with your palm and keeping your shoulders from shaking too badly. Inside, she leaves you to your own devices, and you gratefully ignore her as you ball up a towel and press it hard against your injury, gripping the edge of the hygieneblock counter to keep any unwanted tears at bay. When you feel a little under control, you look up from the sink and into the mirror._ _

__There's blood all over the left side of your face, soaking the white towel, dripping down your hand; that's expected. You don't expect to see Terezi framed in the door, an odd expression on her face. She takes a step towards you. You don't turn around._ _

__"Bet you're feeling pretty high and mighty," you say, hearing the pain quivering in your voice and feeling like a total weakling because of it. "Trial winner. And I got what I had coming to me."_ _

__"I haven't won yet," she replies, and her voice sounds strange, too._ _

__"And you never will."_ _

__You know what's happening. Her attempt is laughable. She lunges for you, the tip of her cane aimed straight at your back, but you've been through too much to even flinch; calmly, almost leisurely, you step out of the way. Her cane strikes the mirror and it shatters, your reflection and hers breaking into a hundred pieces and mixing together on the way down._ _

__She doesn't have a grip on the cane anymore; it bounces away from the concrete behind the glass and tumbles away. You don't even go after it---you just wrap your free hand around her throat and pin her against the wall. Glass tinkles underfoot and nearly trips you up. She isn't afraid---you don't think she's ever been afraid, really---but her lips curl back from her teeth aggressively._ _

__"You think I would let you kill _me_?" you growl, baring your teeth, too. "After what I've been through? After _this_?"_ _

__You let the towel fall to the ground; the sudden exposure of your wound feels like someone sprinkled poisoned glass over it, but you don't let her know that. You juts let her get a good look._ _

__"You deserve to die," she chokes, as you apply more pressure to her throat._ _

__"Funny," you say, reaching back with your now-freed hand and finding a shard of glass that's particularly large, "I could say the same about you."_ _

__Smiling angelically, you thrust the shard into her stomach._ _

__You step away. Her eyes bulge out, mouth opening and closing, as she slides down to the glass-littered floor, hands pressed over the wound. You stand over her, mouth set in a hard line. "Hurts, doesn't it? When things don't go how you planned?"_ _

__You're so mad, about everything that's happened, all of this bullshit, all of these trials and lies and all of the finger-pointing---now it's coming out, spilling out, and you want to stab her again. "Well, fuck you! I hope you rot in _hell_ , you stupid bitch!"_ _

__She has, as usual, something to say. It's barely audible and you can hear agony in her voice. "I'll see you there."_ _

__You're done; you can't do it. But you still stop in the doorway and look back at her through your sole working eye. She's pathetic, barely propped up where the wall and the counter meet, clutching at the teal blood fountaining from her abdomen. Her head falls to the side. Dead, maybe. You don't care._ _

__You couldn't care less.__

###  _ _END OF ACT ONE__

###  _ _INTERMISSION: ENTER THE ANCESTORS__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, folks. Act one is over. The intermission has begun.


	18. ♋ - ♈ - ♉

♋

"My love, won't you wake?"

He wakes slowly, in a staggering way; he feels dry dirt under his back and the warmth of a familiar hand on his shoulder, pinning him to the ground. 

The voice is spoken, but it falls on his tired, war-beaten ears like singing. His eyes open. The moonlight is soft. Above, the canopy of trees rustles calmly, and the injury in his side pulses with the rhythm of a healing wound. The silhouette of a troll hovers at his right hand. Despite his injuries, he smiles.

His Disciple has returned to him.

♈

She thinks that freedom is underrated.

Perhaps, the joy of freedom is dependent on the horrors of captivity---and horrors she has known indeed. The walls of her cell paint the insides of her eyelids when she closes her eyes; the phantom traces of past injuries throb under her skin. Two sweeps in Hell. Two sweeps in prison. Yes, freedom is much sweeter than she would have thought.

She is a troll with a mission now, a troll who's been beaten down and restrained and has had enough. Her hands itch to kill, to break, and she can only think of the time before her imprisonment, when she was feared, when she was death on Alternia. The Demoness. She smiles.

The prison is long behind her; she stands perched on the edge of high-reaching bluffs. The white-washed cliff faces glow in the moonlight. Far below, a greenish river winds along. She wonders if the fall would kill her, or if the river would support her. In the end, the risk is not worth it---she has too much to do.

♉

By the next evening, the infantry is moving again, but he does not lead them---he strays to the back, alone, treating his wounds. His wings are torn in some places. Not enough to keep him earth-bound forever, but enough to force him to walk for now. He's sullen. A good twenty yards separates him from the others, and he can see how the attack on the amphitheater has affected the army. Lives lost. Too many lives lost. As a leader, a strategist, he feels himself a failure.

The forest only shelters them for so long; they eventually reach its outer edge, and all that's left is a stretch of open plains. He hates open spaces like these. Too close to highblood territory, too exposed. He gives the order to continue, despite this. He has no choice. 

He rubs a gash on his arm where one of the E%ecutor's arrows sailed past. He flashes back to the battle on the platform, the Highblood's rage, the Signless, bound and bloodied, and death everywhere he turned, with him in its center. He focuses on the path ahead. Grass underfoot, spacious sky overhead. He revels in being able to breathe and leaves it at that. Though the main goal was accomplished---the Signless's life was spared---the death toll is staggering. He counts it as a loss.

The infantry keeps moving; he stops. Something has occurred to him.

♋

It doesn't take long for his sense of peace to shatter.

He tries to sit up, but her hand restrains him. "Sh, quiet yourself."

He can only think of his descendants---where they are, what's happened to them. He vaguely remembers shouting, being lifted. Fear. He searches for them, but he's alone with his Disciple. The forest is quiet but for them. 

"Where are they?" His voice is hoarse, underused.

She seems confused. "Who?"

"Karkat," he forces out between heavy coughs. "Dave. My descendants."

"You were alone when I found you, my dear," she informs him, stroking the back of his cheek with her hand. 

"I have to find them---" He struggles against her hold again, but only tires himself out.

"Sh," she repeats. "Be still."

♈

She wastes precious moonlight scaling the cliff, but when she reaches the bottom, it is a relief to splash cool river water on her face. Head cleared, she kneels on the banks and wonders how much has happened in her two sweeps of captivity. The war isn't over, she knows. It may never end.

The bloodied needles in her hair find their way into her hands. She itches to kill again, but her time in prison has awarded her a new sense of patience: death to the highbloods will come, she reasons. Sooner rather than later.

She freezes with her hands halfway to the water.

It's faint, but it's there. Marching feet in perfect rhythm. That isn't the gait of a lowblood sect---they rely on stealth to survive. Only highbloods are arrogant to parade themselves from place to place, fearless and proud. 

They're stupid, she thinks. 

She cleans the needles in the river, the dried flakes of blood swirling away in the current, then stands and forks the dripping needles back into her hair. The water waves goodbye as it sidles away. She turns and ghosts into the forest that hugs the cliffs, in the direction of the steady noise. Very, very stupid.

♉

They don't even notice that he's gone.

He simply turns on his heel and ghosts back into the forest, and no one is the wiser. But he's got a task. A difficult one, but one he's not like to ignore any time soon. 

He thinks of what the highbloods see him as---a nuisance, a rebel. A public enemy. A mutant. That's something he can sympathize with the Signless---being a genetic freak, hated even more for something he can't control. Something he was hatched with. During his younger years, he did whatever he could to hide the wings on his back. Now he takes pride. He is different, and he is strong. And he will not be repressed again.

His palmtop finds its way into his hand, a chat request from the Ψiioniic on its screen. He accepts. 

"I have news," the yellow blood begins, jaw tight. "Bad news."

"When is it ever good news?" 

"I've been wondering the same thing myself," the Ψiioniic grunts. "But anyway. It's about the Signless."

"And?"

"You'll never guess who rescued him from the execution."

"Will you just tell me? I don't have time for idle chatter tonight."

The Ψiioniic complies. "Dave Strider and Karkat Vantas. They've got him, hiding out in a forest somewhere. Do you think you could get them?"

He hesitates, thinking of his own mission. "Send me their coordinates. I'll try."

"You'll try?" the Ψiioniic repeats, an edge in his voice. "They could be being hunted as we speak."

"I have my own priorities," he snaps. "You know this."

"Do what you have to, then." The line goes dead.

♋

He's eventually granted the right to sit up, which he takes, scanning the dim forest before relaxing. They seem to be alone. His Disciple helps him sit against the trunk of an old tree, then takes his hand between her own and squeezes it. "What troubles you?"

"My descendants," he reiterates. "They could be dead. We should be looking for them."

She shakes her head sadly. "It's not safe, my love. The highbloods are searching the woods for you. And you're injured . . ."

"I know." He presses his free hand to his bandaged side. The wound throbs in response.

She looks at him, a question in her eyes.

"I can't stay here with them out there," he says, firmly, getting to his feet with her hands still wrapped around his. He pulls her up with him. "We have to find them."

Her olive eyes flick towards him and away, worried. She mulls it over, then nods. "I understand."

The going is slow, because he limps and tires easily, and she can only support him so much before she has to rest as well. The fear of discovery is ever-present and constricting. He strains his ears for anything, a voice, a footstep, but there's nothing. Nothing helpful, anyway. Not until nearly an hour later do they find anything noteworthy, something beaten and left in the dirt, and it makes him sick to his stomach.

♈

The highbloods march on the cold forest path, snow under their boots, their leader a few paces ahead. So stupid. So exposed. They don't even know where she is when her needle slices through the air and spears through the commander's neck. He falls, spurting his own disgusting purple blood, and she ever-so-calmly leaves her place in the shadows of the trees, bending down and removing the needle from his cooling skin.

They stare, the soldiers, most young and scared. They do nothing at first. They're making the connection.

"No," one of them chokes, stumbling into the soldier behind him. "Not you. God, _no_!"

"You---you should be in prison," another whispers, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "This can't be real---"

Another one drops to her knees before her, and the delicious irony brings a hollow smile to her face. The lowblood, revolting, is in control here---the highbloods beg for mercy. She considers sparing them, but the times before the war, when so many fell to her blades, come to mind. These soldiers aren't like the ones from before her imprisonment. These are frozen with fear, unable to even lift a gun or wave a sword. They wait for what she'll do. They're terrified.

She kneels, eye level with the soldier prostrated on the snow, and gently takes the girl's face in her hands. "Sh."

The troll's navy irises quiver with tears. "Please . . ."

She slides one hand to the back of the girl's head, grabs her jaw with the other; then she breaks her neck.

The body slumps to the snow, and she stands, drawing the needles (one bloody, one clean) from her hair. It falls down around her shoulders. The soldiers are transfixed, none of them making an attempt at escape, and she smiles wider. It's too easy.

♉

His task will wait another night.

He tracks a course for the coordinates he's been sent, wondering what he'll find. Corpses? Enemies? Or, worse, nothing? He doesn't like the thought of that. He's giving up on his own priorities for this, and he's not keen on wasting his time on useless tasks. 

The forest is cool. No snow yet---it's too far south for that---but a biting chill is in the air. His bare arms take the brunt of it. Leather clothing, though suitable for battle, isn't ideal for warmth. His breath fogs out in front of his face. He's closer, now, but still not in range.

He wonders how he could have explained what he needs to do to the Ψiioniic, how he could have possibly articulated the burning sense of duty (however misplaced it may be) within him. He is a simple troll. He wants little. No---he wants many things, peace, an end to this war, equality. But for himself---hardly. He sees himself going nowhere after his service here is no longer necessary, drifting along aimlessly, because there is a harsh fact about him: he means nothing if someone isn't dying. 

He has no place in a peaceful society, no skills besides those with a blade, no talents besides those he uses for planning the downfalls of his enemies. That is why he's so good at what he does---he's not good at anything else. Hatched a killing machine, no better than the highbloods he destroys. Secretly, he wants the war to continue, if only for a while longer. He feels needed. He feels useful.

Despite this, his initial plan of action upon separating from the rest nags him. He's a strong troll, glorified among those who know nothing of him, but even the strongest will break. He can't always be the wall of immovable steel his soldiers see him as, the symbol of strength he's become for so many. Perhaps he isn't meant to be relied on---he feels choked. Overwhelmed. He values freedom above everything, he decides. The trappings of his military position are too much for him. Suffocating.

But what could he do about that? Abandon his people? He may be a self-sufficient troll, but he knows how the rebellion would suffer without his guidance. He's backed into a corner. The Ψiioniic's words come back to him--- _Do what you have to, then_ \---and he turns slightly, stopping with one hand resting on the cool bark of an old tree. He forgets, for the moment, about Dave Strider and Karkat Vantas and even the Signless. 

The burning call for action in his gut flares up again, and the idea springs back into his head, the way it had when he'd first left his soldiers behind. 

_Kill him._

_Kill the Grand Highblood._

♋

He kneels, his leggings fraying on the jagged forest floor, but he does nothing to prevent the icy pain that creeps up. The scrap of cloth in the dirt is pitiful and trampled but impossible to ignore. He plucks the black fabric free and blows the worst of the grime off, his stomach sinking. The tell-tale grey symbol blares back at him. He turns it sideways; sixty-nine.

His Disciple's hand, gentle, on his shoulder. "What is it?"

"Karkat's sign," he answers, brushing more dirt from it. "He wasn't supposed to have it . . . hemocaste-related paraphernalia is banned in the rebellion. He must have been hiding it, and dropped it . . ."

He closes his eyes, overcome with guilt. Anything that happens to those two will be his fault. Shouldering his feelings, he stands, swaying under the weight of his injuries. Her hands steady him, but he shakes his head. He can manage it. She hesitates, gives him space. "Now? Where will we go?"

"Look." His stomach twists as he points. Her eyes fall on what he's just noticed---a smear of crimson blood on the trunk of a tree. "We're close."

He starts forward, but her hand curls around his arm, stilling him. "We don't know what we might find."

"I know." The anger that he felt on the platform, the kind of anger that put pressure on his bones and boiled his outlawed blood, sparked in his chest. "I have to find them."

She nods, understanding, and they follow the new trail of blood deeper into the forest. The rage he's stifled for so long burns. The thought of Karkat and Dave, murdered, innocent---his breathing sharpens. His Disciple seems to notice, but says nothing; she winds their hands together, calming him some. They walk in silence. The trail ends.

♈

The soldier is so young, so inexperienced. So afraid.

"Please," he says, and the word comes out as if someone's got their hands around his neck, squeezing. "Please, d-don't kill me."

He doesn't know that he's already dead; perhaps the snow he's sprawled on has numbed the pain, but one of her needles sticks quite obviously from between his ribs, mocking him. She doesn't remove it. Instead, she kneels at his side, and takes one of his hands, holding it up so that he can see---chances are that he's lost feeling in the limb already. "Quiet yourself, highblood."

"I never wanted this." Blue-tinted tears spill out of the corners of his eyes, stain the snow beneath his head. A trail of blood snakes from the corner of his mouth. He doesn't seem to notice. "I never wanted to be a soldier, I wanted to be a legislacerator, I wanted . . ."

She isn't interested in his life story, but he's the last of his comrades; he, if any of them, deserves a final word. A spoken memoir. His sentence tapers off into ragged breathing, and she tries to calculate how much time he has. If his air sacs are punctured, not much. He's breathing in his own blood as they speak; soon he'll drown in it. She smooths her hand across his forehead. The skin is colder than frozen steel.

"You're free from that, now," she comforts him. She's never tried to ease the fears of her victims; usually, death by her hand was swift and accurate. Now, she stays her hand. His eyes flick wildly. 

"Please," he repeats, in a strangled whisper. His voice gains volume, unexpected. _"Please!"_

He can scream if he likes; there's nothing here with them but bodies. The decapitated corpse of the highblood commander hangs from a tree above them. The last soldier's eyes travel from her face to the cadaver, and he makes a choking noise, dribbling blood instead of vomit. "Oh, god . . ."

"You're going to die," she says, voice measured and unhurried. His eyes fall on hers again. "There is nothing I or anyone else can do about it. But I will end your suffering now if you tell me something."

He starts to cry, his face twisting with complete hopelessness, but she sees him nod all the same. "Okay. Okay."

"Where," she begins, wrapping her fingers around the needle and rending it free of the soldier's chest, "is the Condescension?"

♉

He finds the boy alone, in a clearing, with the moon high above and the stink of death low.

Whether the others are here as well isn't important right now; he hurries into the clearing and drops to his knees at the troll's side. Dave Strider has slumped forward, cheek pressed to the cool ground, eyes closed and shades shattered nearby. Blood pools in a sickening puddle around his head. The source, a wound on his temple, is gruesome. Enough blunt force trauma to crack a skull for sure. 

He takes a moment to recall battlefield medislaying, something he's well versed in after so many sweeps of fighting. The sheer amount of blood fills his mouth with a sick taste. He strips the sleeve from Dave's shirt and wads it up, holding it fast against the still bleeding injury. It's ugly.

He rolls Dave over and checks for a pulse. Finding a faint one, he exhales in relief and applies more pressure, focused entirely on the task at hand. Later, he realizes what a fledgling mistake that is on his part. Too stupid for someone of his experience level. Regardless, it's too late for him to cover his back, too late to fix it, and he hears the massive footsteps with his hands still buried in the crimson towel.

He turns, slowly, a feeling of intense anxiety brewing inside him, and stands to his full height. He's a tall, muscular troll, but he is nothing when compared to his adversary. Nearly eight feet of solid subjugglator. This is what he wants, isn't it? A fight? 

But now, faced with the Grand Highblood in all of his purple-blooded fury, his resolve wavers.

♋

The trail of blood ends at the scene of a struggle; the leaves are disturbed upon the ground, and bark is ripped from the trees. Navy blood now joins crimson in random splatters. As for anything else of use, he finds nothing. Hollowness invades him. He thinks of Dave, who he saved from certain death at the hands of his own people, nine sweeps prior, and now may be lost forever; and he thinks of Karkat, whose own life has defeated him, and who he relates to in more ways than one. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

His Disciple says nothing, and when he turns to her, she isn't there. She was never there.

It was all a hallucination, he thinks. He's out of his mind. He must be. 

He sways on his feet, drops to his knees. The fabric is still in his hands. He traces the curve of Karkat's sign with his bleary eyes, until fatigue grips him and he has to brace his hands against the forest floor to keep from falling. She's not real, Dave's dead, Karkat's dead. He takes a shuddering breath. He's so confused, so tired, how could he go on from here? After everything he's done, after every word of peace he's uttered, this is how he's repaid. _This_ is how his pacifistic pleas are answered---with blood and violence and death.

This isn't what he wanted. This was _never_ what he wanted. But there is a time when one's self is less important than his cause, and when his values are less important than his people. Those he loves most are falling, more and more each night, and he curses himself. He's selfish. This is a war, not a discussion. He has been too kind.

The shock dissipates like fog, and he gets to his feet, steady now. The rage that tore through him at the execution returns, but it is more of a pulse, a measured, constant thrum through his body, red-hot and pressurized. He's never felt this way before---like he wants to rip someone open and run their blood through his fingers. But it feels right.

He looks down at the scrap once more, then shrugs his cloak back and ties the fabric around his bare upper arm, with Karkat's sign facing out. Never before has he worn a sign; brands were for those who the Empire looked on with favor. Now, it feels appropriate. He's different; to continue calling himself the Signless would be misleading.

He is a troll who has known suffering, one who's been whipped every step of the way---but tonight, he won't stand for it anymore. He has known suffering.

And he will embrace it.

♈

He tells her what he knows on his dying breaths, and, graciously, she severs his jugular and ends his pain. He becomes another corpse on the forest path. Someone will mourn him, she thinks. Someone will care.

She leaves, puts the bloodied path behind her and winds between the black trees of the woods. They whisper with an icy wind and the soldier's last words: _The flagship . . . She stays on the flagship . . ._

The Empress is clever, sure. To hide on a ship, too high for shotty rebel tech to ever reach her---it's a fine plan. But not full proof. Nothing is full proof. Everything is attainable. She runs her knuckles against the bark of a tree, relishes in the pain. That is the difference between her and the Cndescension---she has known pain and she has accepted it. 

She doesn't have the details of the plan yet. The methods are blurry, but the goal is clear: to end the Empress's life. 

As a soldier, she has never explicitly gone against orders; she has done what is expected and killed anything in her way. Common sense tells her to find the Summoner or another rebel leader and assume her place as a weapon of mass destruction. But primal instinct tells her otherwise---primal instinct thirsts for the blood of those who have wronged her and the head of the one behind it all.

She could go back to the prison, track down every guard who's ever smashed a rifle into her nose and return what's due; or she could dig up the names of every general who's ever escaped her on the battlefield and finish the job. She doesn't want to. There is one troll she cares to defeat, once and for all, and that troll is sitting on a throne a thousand miles in the sky.

There is only one time to strike, and that time is now.

♉

The Grand Highblood takes a step forward. There is nothing decidedly predatory about his movements, yet everything about him embodies violence and fear; he is a troll hatched and raised in the clutches of horror disguised as mirth, and he is fully aware of this, and he does not care. He is death.

His opponent lets the bloodstained rag fall from his hands, draping it over the carcass of Dave Strider's sunglasses, and straightens his back. He is a rebel and he is proud. He is not afraid. He is the resistance.

Still, somehow, standing before this hulking monster is more intimidating now than it was on the platform---the thrill of battle all around is absent, the air is peaceful, and they are crushingly alone. This should be an even fairer fight; the E%ecutor is gone, the odds are even. But it isn't. A tremor runs down his spine. 

"I have waited for this," the Highblood breathes, voice low and loud at the same time. "For this MOTHERFUCKING RETRIBUTION."

His hands tighten around his lance, fresh from his strife deck. He doubts himself. He didn't win the fight on the platform; he flew away and saved his men. But this is an honest, one-on-one fight that he may very well lose. Not that that's ever stopped him. He slides into a fighting stance.

"A fair fight." He says it out loud, chin turned up. "I am not afraid of you."

The Highblood positively roars with laughter, so loud that a flock of squawkbeasts takes flight somewhere nearby. "YOU? Not afraid of ME? I will show you your place, rebel. _I WILL SHOW YOU YOUR CORPSE."_

The Highblood charges.

He throws up his lance, blocking the downward swipe of one gargantuan club. It sends his skidding backwards. He regains his balance and stabs, but the Highblood is prepared; he swings a club and catches his opponent's shoulder. Staggering, the rebel accepts an unforgiving truth---he can't win this fight, not like this, not wounded the way he is. He twitches his wings experimentally---they scream with pain, but he would rather have sore wings then a gruesome death.

His eyes fall on Dave, still unconscious on the ground. He can't leave him there. Despite what his instincts tell him, he ducks around the Highblood and scoops the limp troll in his arms, his lance already back in his strife deck. Takeoff will be even more of a challenge with added weight. He gets a running start, his blood pusher banging away from all of the excessive activity, and leaps, pounding the air hard with his wings. He nearly crumples. The strain is almost too much, but he struggles on, gaining altitude. 

The Grand Highblood's hot breath is on the back of his neck. The troll is tall; it would be easy for him to reach up and catch the escapee like plucking an insect out of the way. He doesn't. He stops and watches his prey disappear, and that is something that the Summoner will never truly understand---or, rather, not until much later, when the war is at its height and nothing is easy. But for now he rejoices in saving his life and the life of another. Cowardly, but he's alive.

He is a strong troll, but even the strongest will break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //hides because this chapter isn't at all what I wanted it to be and it's five years late


	19. ♊ - ♌ - ♍

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here it is; a painfully reconstructed chapter 19. if you read the original chapter, great. if you didn't, that's fine too. nothing changed but the words. plot is completely the same. 
> 
> sorry for the miniature hiatus! uwu

♊

He likes to think of himself as a puppeteer; someone who pulls the strings, always behind a curtain, never really seen, never knee-deep in the action.

Some nights, he rejoices in his solitude, his anonymity. Other nights, he hates it. He hates the feeling that he's useless to the real fight. Or that his contributions mean nothing, can never help someone who's hacking away at highbloods on a battlefield, while he sits pretty in his moving workstation. Tonight is one of those nights where he would give anything to be out there.

The Summoner hasn't replied to any demands for a status report, and his own imagination is his enemy. He has no idea where the Signless or his young descendants are, not without correspondence with the rebel leader, and the silence is killing him. He takes a deep breath and tightens his hands on the wheel. He really, really wants to peel out and go looking himself. But he can't. He's more useful here, in this motor vehicle, with his monitors.

He unhooks his seat belt and vaults into the back of his van, where his extensive surveillance system is set up. He roves his eyes over the monitors that have replaced the back seats and take up most of the transport's interior space. Most of them are news feeds, keeping him linked to the happenings around the planet. He has one monitor dedicated entirely to communications―and that monitor is crushingly blank.

He drums his fingers on his keyboard, wanting to fire off another report but deciding against it. Because someone's messaging him.

He recognizes that color―but this doesn't make sense. She should be in prison; she should be withering in a cell. _She shouldn't be contacting him._ Not on a highblood device, according to the digital signature, and not in a guttural lowblood dialect that he can hardly read.

サイオニック。  
♊: 分かりません。  
♊: 彼らはあなたを投獄。  
私は逃げました。  
♊: どのようにそれを行うのですか？  
暴動。  
他にどのように？  
♊: 私はあなたを見つけることができますか？  
刑務所の北。  
♊: 私は正確な座標を探している。  
私を得る来る。  
♊: 私がします。  
急ぐ。

♌

She is a huntress, a warrior; she isn't meant for sitting alone in an old library, surrounded by rebels that don't understand. They don't understand why she wakes with tears in her eyes some nights, or why she's always clutching a stupid old book to her chest. Nor do they understand a sense of duty beyond an instinct to kill highbloods. She doesn't expect anything better of them. They mill around, aimless, leaderless, only united in the face of the enemy.

The library creaks and breathes around her. She sets her lover's book on the desk before her and gets to her feet, ambling between the shelves. This block's roof slopes to form an impressive dome, painted with constellations, complementing the ink-colored carpet. She traces the patterns with her eyes and trails her hand over an aging bookshelf. She's bored.

She's bored of waiting for attacks that won't come, bored of doing nothing while her love is out there, fighting, dying―this is difficult, doing nothing. Testing her. She knows that her place here is important―guarding his secrets is vital to the rebellion―but she doesn't have to enjoy it. Nor does she have to enjoy feeling like a sitting quackbeast in the rare event that highbloods _do_ attack. 

She remembers the young lieutenant she all but sentenced to death; that was wrong, and she still feels pangs of guilt. The girl survived, but barely. A miracle in itself. She should have done something when she had the chance―should have killed the lieutenant herself, honorably, and spared her the pain that she suffered. 

But something else stands out in her mind: if the highbloods were willing to attack once, surely they're willing to attack twice. 

No. That's preposterous.

♍

Tonight, she's alone, and that in itself is a marvel.

It's early, and the Marquise is absent; her quarters rest in the darkness of early evening, the many treasures scattered about glittering dully in the low light. She takes a moment to herself and sits up. Her lips burn where the Marquise's have been; her skin burns where the Marquise's hands have been. This is what she has become. A pirate's plaything.

She inhales, exhales, and inhales again, but holds the breath in her air sacs for a minute before releasing, like holding a gun up to someone's eyes before finally pulling the trigger. Part of her wants to stop breathing all together. Another part wants to stop existing entirely.

She curses the Marquise for what she's done to her; how she's turned a motherly troll into a slave, so ingrained in her master's web that she can't even remember what it was like _before_ , when life was worth living.

A recuperacoon bubbles gently at the end of the block; she wants to sink into its sopor embrace and be done with the night before it's even begun, but that would be weak; and she remembers a promise to a young mutant to always be strong. A promise made a thousand sweeps ago and kept ever since.

♊

Driving through the countryside, away from the highblood cities and smog, is always a comfort on his wired nerves. Until it isn't.

He passes the true horrors of war―the lowblood villages crushed under superior military strategics, burnt to the ground, houses gutted, some still smoking. His tires splash through pools of blood and crack discarded bones. When he sees bodies, he looks away just as quickly. He always wonders if he could have done something to prevent this, this carnage, and always tells himself to keep his mind off of such things. Trolls stronger than he have gone mad thinking similarly. 

He focuses on the road and the palmtop in his hand, displaying his conversation with the Handmaid. Something like a sigh escapes him. He can remember, before the war, a very different Handmaid―one far from being called a Demoness, one who was kind and gentle and pitied him. And he pitied her, too. But does he still? Hardly.

This isn't the Handmaid he remembers. This is a troll who is war-hardened, sharp as glass, beyond having a conscious or mercy. She isn't ruthless because she stands so strongly for her cause; she's ruthless because something happened to her, sweeps ago, that made her this way. He believes in that firmly. In his opinion, no one turns into a bloodthirsty troll like her without a push. Something strong.

This is not the troll he pitied, sweeps ago.

  
♌   


She goes to the room's only window, entertaining her fear of sudden attack, and opens it, leaning out into the cool night air. She's a full story above the street. Distantly, she can see the platform on which the seadweller was nearly executed, some time ago, but little else. The streets are empty. Which is strange―usually, at this time, the slums are alive with activity.

It's too quiet.

 _You're being ridiculous_ , she thinks, chalking it up to her overactive imagination. 

But this is too out of the ordinary. She leans further, until the sill digs into her stomach, and she feels fit to tip forward any minute. Her eyes rove the shadows. She wants to believe that nothing's wrong, but her instincts have never failed her, and they've gotten her this far; she's right to trust them. It's dark, and she struggles to discern whether the movement she swears she sees is just a trick of the light or what. 

She shakes her head, shuts the window, and turns away. There's nothing out there. She's imagining it.

The flames of a distant explosion paint the walls orange-red as the window blows inward and she hits the ground.

♍

Though she firmly believes that the past serves only to blot out the future, she still finds herself recalling her _first_ stay aboard the Marquise's ship.

She likes to lie to herself. She likes to believe that those first encounters were forced on her, that the Marquise's web of a mind had ensnared her will. But she knows better. She was lucid when it happened, and for this, she remembers every minute.

She remembers more about those nights than she'll admit―the Marquise's velvet skin, salty smell, and lustful voice. Cool, blue blood pooling on her tongue. Teeth. In the beginning, she was resistant, withdrawn; it took some time for her to enjoy her time in the captain's quarters, and even then, she never truly _wanted_ the pirate's advances―there was always a flavor of disgust, a tinge of _wrong_ in the air.

But there was no choice. She was just a lowly, jade-blooded slave.

  
♊   


  
She's waiting for him where the road is blocked by the darkened treeline, a blur of grey through the windshield. He idles at the wheel while she approaches. Being so close to her, after their history, after how they've _both_ changed―it's hardly going to be comfortable.

"You made good time," is her opening statement as she buckles into the passenger's side. He makes a fluid u-turn.

"I try," he says, brushing it off.

Her accent is the guttural, barely-passable one he remembers; but it's not highlighted with spirited attempts at perfection, just a flat acceptance of her own garbled tongue. When he thinks of her, he thinks of missing pieces―the lost energy, the lost light in her eyes, the lost compassion, the lost warmth. Those things that made her his are gone. 

The silence stretches like elastic, and as elastic tends to do, it eventually snaps. She speaks. "I need to be somewhere. Soon."

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. She's just broken free of prison; shouldn't she want to be resting somewhere, enjoying life's pleasures instead of the spoils of another mission? "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she says, with force. "I have a task. To murder the Condescension."

He doesn't know whether to pull over and slap her or to laugh; he does neither and shakes his head slowly. "Madness. She's too powerful."

"I disagree."

"And I don't care," he snaps, losing his patience. "She'll kill you. In seconds."

A terrifying grin is penciled on her face. "I can handle the bitch."

"No, you can't," he grits out, not wanting to argue it further. Even if his red feelings for her are gone with the times, traces of old protective instincts stand out. "It's suicide."

"Life is nothing without danger."

  
♌   


She feels her own warm blood run in rivulets down her back, intermixed with powdery glass from the blown window, but that's the least of her concerns; the flicker of flames from outside is distant, the shouts of surprise and pain on the street barely registering. Instinct takes over. She rolls sideways and behind the study's wide desk, out of the window's way, and instantly scoops up his book. As long as it's safe, she'll be alright.

Conflicted, she crouches, eyes on the dark strip of sky visible through the window, both hands on the book. She has a duty to protect the volume in her arms; but the thought of hiding while others fight and die, even for the sake of her lover's teachings―it's madness, and she finds herself shoving it deep in one of the desk's bottom drawers and army-crawling beneath the window. Glass embeds itself in her forearms and knees. 

Barely noticing the fresh cuts, she kneels before the window and peeks just her head over the sill, greedily surveying the once-quiet street. Now, fires rage in the gaping mouths of broken hives; figures flit through the orange-tinted darkness; the clash of weapons is bright. But the attackers aren't, they're practically invisible―she squints, hardly able to tell who's friend and who's foe, until she sees it―the smooth curve of a bow in the dark, and then the quiet gleam of an arrow being strung. 

Archeradicators. For a moment, she forgets herself, and stares unabashedly at the arrow as it swings towards its target.

_Target._

Archeradicators never miss their target. 

The arrowhead looks her right between the eyes; even from a great distance, she knows this to be true. The bow is released.

She hits the glass-studded carpet in less than a second, but the arrow still carves a slit through one of her horns and thuds into the wall behind her. A hiss of pain escapes her. Clasping one hand to the damaged horn―she can practically feel the nerves screaming―she thanks the stars for it being her horn, and not her head, and scrambles out from under the window, darting for the door on two feet when it's safe. 

The hallway curves gently away, but she heads for the spiral staircase to her left. The library is dark and quiet, untouched by the battle outside, almost eerily so. She equips her claws and sharpens them on the peeling wallpaper as she descends the stairs. The noise is high, keening, and appropriate. 

A young troll with a mace swinging in one hand appears from another room, streaked in blood and breathing heavily. He stops, surprised, and addresses her. "My lady, what are you doing here? Archeradicators are outside, you should hide―"

"I am done hiding," she enunciates carefully, meeting his eyes. He falters. 

"Uh. Right."

The troll trots away, nursing a bloody shoulder, and she lays a hand on one of the double front doors. The thick wood blocks all sounds of the battle beyond. Taking a deep breath, she drops low and turns the knob.

  
♍   


Perhaps the Marquise's attraction began purely out of physical desire, but she recalls quite clearly how things changed―how she spent more time noticing the good things about the Marquise instead of dwelling on the bad. Things like her thoughtful intelligence, reserved for her quarters rather than her crew; her neat handwriting and easy breathing and, most of all her weaknesses.

And weaknesses, there were many. She only saw them when they were alone, but they were present. The Marquise had a brazen need to be feared; it was an armor she wore from sunset till dawn, and coming off in the last hours of the night. Being strong can make a troll weak, it seems.

There were other things, softer things, that only showed when they were intimate―the steel edge disappeared from her voice, and the razors of her nails were gentle. There was a beautiful person under that bravado―so who could judge the red feelings that came about soon after? She still does. There is no excuse for pitying a criminal.

She can't remember exactly when she began to hopelessly pity the Marquise, but she imagines it was sometime before she jumped over the side of the ship and swam to shore.

  
♊   


The silence returns with a vengeance, and they pass two destroyed villages before she breaks the stillness.

"Why did you rescue me?"

Her question disarms him; he has to chew on his answer for some time before it comes to him. "You found me."

"You told me how to contact you in emergencies," she says simply. "But you did not have to come."

He pauses. She's right; he has other things to do. He could be searching out the Summoner or the Signless right now, doing something more productive than chauffeuring a criminal around. Yet somehow, he doesn't mind. He analyzes the situation. No, he doesn't _need_ to do this; but he wants to.

"I did this," he says, after a pregnant pause, "because I needed a distraction."

"A distraction?"

"A distraction," he repeats, rambling now. "Everything is falling apart. The rebellion is under strain, and its leader is missing. I should be helping. But I'm not. I'm here."

"Distractions aren't . . . good," she stammers, fighting for the right words. 

He looks at her pointedly. "I know."

  
♌   


As soon as the door opens, several arrows embed themselves in the scarred wood; she rolls lithely out of the way, diving into the bushes that line the library's front steps. In the shadows, she takes a moment to collect herself, then takes note of the scene before her―the whirl and screech of blades and the pop and click of firearms. The street is littered with fallen soldiers.

She inhales sharply and fires out of hiding, taking advantage of her light step and agile run. Arrows sail past; none mark her. Whenever an enemy is within arm's reach, she lashes out, slashing throats left and right, never losing step. She has a mission. Something has occurred to her, breaking through the haze of confusion and habitual killing. 

Archeradicators in this number would only ever be led by one troll―one troll, so ruthless in his strike, so accurate with his bow, so unfailing with his leadership, that the Baroness would only appoint him over her finest soldiers. The E%ecutor. Darkleer.

She doesn't want to remember their time together as moirails, the times when their diamond was stronger than his loyalty to the Empire; only a few sweeps ago, if she's not wrong, they were inseparable. She was his world, he was hers. Moiraillegiances like theirs were the stuff of fairy tales. 

And how did it fall apart? Before the war, she thinks. Before the declaration of utmost segregation between the classes. Right when things were heating up for the real battle, the skirmishes and the fights in the streets, the epithets and unrest―the call to arms. The Empress's sweet words to the higher castes. Yes, when he chose the Condescension over his moirail―that was when it ended. 

Short and sweet.

Frustrated, she hooks her blades in an enemy's chest and sends them tumbling to the gutter. He _has_ to be here. He has to be here, and she has to see him, even if she says nothing to him―she has to be the one to end him. She has to put a blade to his throat and end everything.

She stops in the center of the blood-slicked street, in the middle of the fight; nothing can reach her here. She's focused. She looks past the sparring trolls, past the arcs of blood and broken bones and severed limbs, and he appears as if he's been painted onto the landscape. Ever-present and artful.

The E%ecutor rides a black hoofbeast, firing arrows seamlessly from where he sits in the saddle; none of them miss. He is the best of the best, after all. But she doesn't care about the medals on his breast or his recognition on the battlefield. That means nothing to her, a hurt troll with nothing and everything to lose. She charges.

  
♍   


The Marquise returns late in the evening, the smell of alcohol strong about her but an unfailing sobriety in her, too. That's the odd thing about her―she never drinks, and if she does, it has little to no effect on her. She can't allow herself to slip in front of her crew; it's unthinkable.

The captain doesn't acknowledge her as she passes, going instead to her desk and immediately leafing through her journal. Not the ship's log―her journal. Personal accounts, things she would only share with the troll stretched out on the settee, watching with baited breath and nervous green eyes.

The Marquise's quill scratches easily across parchment. Rather than breaking the heavy silence, she undresses in her seat, shucking off the coat and outerwear and crossing spider-web-stockinged legs. She leans back in her chair, finally looking at the slave; something like satisfaction mixed with curiosity blends into her expression.

"Good evening," the pirate says, almost conversationally.

She wants to scream; she wants to scream at this woman and beg for her life back, beg for the way she felt before she fell face-first into a quadrant with a killer; but that isn't the way the world works. She can do nothing but nod her acknowledgements and pull the divan up some over her chest, which is hardly covered by her thin white slip.

"Quiet, aren't you?" the Marquise notes. She shuts the journal softly, setting it aside, and drops the quill into the inkwell. "That's perfectly alright."

  
♊   


As they're nearing a more urban area, leaving behind the rolling countryside, his palmtop beeps.

He seizes it, nearly careening off the road in the process. He reads the incoming message hungrily. The wheel is steadied by his knees, while she watches with mild interest.

♉: I have Dave Strider. Karkat and the Signless are missing. Find me here.

Attached is a set of coordinates he vaguely recognizes, not far from the amphitheater, so he turns off the main road and onto a smaller, bumpier one, deciding to take the long way―he doesn't want to be trailed. His digital signature is well-hidden, but nothing's impossible, especially when it comes to highbloods.

"Where are we going?" 

He starts in surprise, having forgotten the Handmaid for a blissful minute. "The Summoner needs me."

"And I am to go with you?"

"Well, you're sure as hell not getting on the flagship," he scoffs. She starts to protest, but he cuts her off. "My wheels, my rules."

  
♌   


He never sees her coming. Even as she's leaping forward, over the hoofbeast's head, he doesn't see her. Fitting. She hits him squarely in the chest. Though he's a large troll, the force generated is enough to send them both tumbling to the concrete, the agitated steed galloping on without them.

He struggles like a true soldier, nearly cuffing her with a solid right-hook, but she's quicker than he gives her credit for and dodges the wide swing. The cool kiss of her claws against his throat is enough to end his thrashing. She straddles his chest, staring him in the eye, reveling in the way his chest rises and falls erratically beneath her; he's afraid. Afraid of _her_.

"You don't have to do this," he says, quietly, eyes obscured by his goggles. 

"I think I do," she disagrees, applying the slightest pressure. Beads of navy blue peek free of his skin. "I think you deserve to die."

His mouth presses into a thin line. "I never meant for it to end this way."

"And I never meant for it to end."

"You know I had an obligation," he chokes, straining to get away from the blades. "They would have culled me―"

 _"Then you should have been culled!"_ The words slip out before she can help herself; she takes a composing breath and winds her free hand in his collar, steadying. "I would have died for you. I would have―"

He cuts her off this time. "But you didn't. You chose your side the same way I chose mine."

"The Baroness would have culled lowbloods on sight."

"And she would have culled traitorous highbloods on sight as well," he points out. Veins jump at his temples. "I did what you would have done."

"It doesn't matter," she spits. "You ruined us. It's never going to be the same. You don't mean anything to me anymore; the same way I stopped meaning anything to you all those sweeps ago."

"I never stopped caring," he whispers, dark eyebrows coming together. "Even in the military, after we were separated, I cared―"

 _"No you didn't!"_ She loses her cool, completely, and instantly regrets it. It's all he needs to gain the upper hand and flip them over; suddenly she's the one pinned to the pavement and he's the one with the power.

He leans over her, blood from his neck dripping onto hers. "I'm sorry."

"What are you―"

Her head strikes the asphalt, and darkness falls.

  
♍   


As the sun is rising outside, and the crew is falling into alcohol-induced sleep, she lies perfectly still and tries not to move when blue-painted lips explore her own. 

It's easy not to participate when the Marquise is hovering over her like this, grazing skin with teeth and twisting the silky fabric at her hips; it's easy to stare at the ceiling and pretend that she has a choice here, that she isn't being forced―and yet she knows that if she would just say the word, _stop_ , the Marquise would comply―she could end all of this, but she _doesn't_ , she lets it happen―she's pathetic.

The truth hurts, and the truth is this―she is deeply enthralled in a red romance with Alternia's most feared criminal. And she hates it. She hates the Marquise, but more than that, she hates herself for pitying a murderer―because that makes her just as bad, doesn't it? She can't call herself a better troll than the one she calls her matesprit. If she can even call her that.

"Are you happy?" The Marquise's words are planted by kiss onto her shoulder.

The question startles her; is she happy? No, she can't be; how could anyone be happy like this, locked away in a pirate's respiteblock, nothing more than a toy―isn't she? Maybe she means more to the captain than that, but it's too difficult to sympathize with the woman that _purchased_ her. Her answer is brutally honest.

"No."

Blue lips pause on a tender collar bone; soft, almost―hurt?―words follow. "And there isn't anything I can do to change that?"

She thinks about this, hard; she thinks about the things she wants and the things she can't have and how confused she is; she thinks about how madly she pities the woman that's killing her slowly; she thinks about the Signless, her child, her son; she thinks about the life she's left behind and the one she's chained to now. 

"I don't think so, no."


	20. ♎ - ♏ - ♐

♎

She arrives on the flagship early in the evening.

An usher immediately takes her bags and shows her out of the bay and into the lavish innards of the ship, fawning over her and asking her periodically if she needs anything. She declines. The special treatment isn't a surprise; not only is she feared as a military strategist, but as the Grand Highblood's matesprit. 

She does not worry about her platoon; they're well-kept in the hands of her second-in-command and out of her hair. Truthfully, she isn't sorry to leave them on the battlefield. She was never meant to be a commander. She was pigeonholed into it, thrust into a position of power because apparently, success in the courtblock equates to success on the battlefield. Yes, her success rate up to this point has been admirable; but nothing she cares to brag about it. If anything, she wants to be back in front of His Honorable Tyranny, prosecuting as she should be. No wonder she's still called the Neophyte―the courts were suspended before she could get more than a handful of cases under her belt.

There is no need for courts in war. All is justified.

♏

"Welcome back, Spiderling."

She watches the girl as she boards, one eye heavily bandaged, a grim look on her face. That can't be good at all. If anything, she should be rejoicing―the Condescension doesn't pardon everyone. Leaving the flagship with her life is a victory in itself. 

The girl's one eye slides slowly to her captain's face, then drops to stare at the salt-weathered deck. "Thanks."

She doesn't respond, calculating. This isn't right. This isn't the girl who would do anything under the moon to prove herself to her captain, nor is she the girl whose only purpose is to impress and succeed―she carries herself the way one does when expecting to be struck, and when expecting to fight back fiercely. She can't have this. No, the Admiral is much more useful when she's eager to please.

"There, there, darling," she murmurs, folding the girl into her arms. That's all it takes―she isn't a master of manipulation for nothing. Vriska deflates, positively slumps into the embrace, because trolls like her aren't used to contact that isn't violent, or deadly; warmth and sincerity and presence weaken her.

Her shoulders rock with a tremor. "She took my _eye_."

"And you will be rewarded," she hisses, close to the girl's ear, tightening her hand in her hair. "The woman is nearing her end."

"Funny. She said the same thing about you."

  
♐

He doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't think about his actions as he swings her over his broad shoulder and clicks his tongue. His hoofbeast clatters to his side. 

The battle doesn't quiet as he climbs into the saddle, ducking stray arrows and steeling himself against the report of gunfire and chink of blades. He can't see. The air is too dark, too swarmed with bodies, and only the flames left by brutal attacks light his way when he digs his heels in. The hoofbeast rockets forward, a scream under its muscular neck. The crowd parts for him; he is unopposed.

Only the instinct to get away―to get _her_ away―propels his thoughts. His gloved hand forms a vise around the reigns. The conflict fades rapidly, leaving him to thunder through a silent city, alone but for the unconscious troll he holds precariously to him. The looks she gave him before, when she was surely about to kill him, flash before him, and he has to focus to keep from veering into one of the squat hives lining the narrow street.

He's such a stupid, stupid troll, to have rescued her. His duty is to kill―even now, galloping across uneven pavement, he tries to consider it. He has ways. An arrow, at close range, quick and efficient. He doesn't even need the bow; it would only slow him down. Just a good, downward strike, through the neck or the blood pusher or the head. But the thought alone makes him sick.

He doesn't deserve to be an E%ecutor, not when he's too weak to kill one of the most wanted criminals on Alternia. The troll he carries is a figurehead of the rebellion he's sworn to quash―if he has any integrity, any sense of right, he will kill her now and bring her head to the Empress herself. He doesn't.

♎

She manages to shake the overeager usher and winds her way through the flagship's endless hallways, the throneblock in mind and, more pressingly, the conversation she's due to have with the Empress. Correspondence with the Condescension is rarely pleasant. As she nears the massive front doors to the throne, guards flanking the door frame grant her entry, bowing as they do so. The doors close behind her with a final click.

The Condesce is folded easily over her gargantuan throne, her trident in her lap, claws tapping along its polished golden surface. She watches her visitor with a predator's gaze. Then again, highbloods all seem to possess that quality―that inherent danger, strong enough to melt a weaker troll's will with a glance.

She passes between the block's towering columns, stretching upwards to support an invisible roof, wide enough to give off a sense of imprisonment. Her heels ricochet on treated marble floors. She stops a few paces from the throne, controlling the shivers that threaten to rock down her spine―the temperature always feels frigid in the presence of the Condescension, whether it's imagination or not.

The seadweller straightens almost imperceptibly, a characteristic smirk playing on her lips. "I was just wondering when my guest would arrive."

"I hope I didn't keep my queen waiting?" She speaks with just the faintest tone of sarcasm; anything more would be deadly.

"You did," the Empress sighs. "But I won't hold it against you, just this once."

"You requested conference?"

Now relaxed, the Condesce leans back in her chair once more and scrutinizes her visitor. "I'm sure you've heard of the trial?"

Her jaw stiffens. "I have."

"Such a pity. Your little descendant did a such a fine job, even _I_ was convinced. Granted, I knew how the trial would play out before it even started―but I'll allot credit where credit is due."

She swallows. The trial was fixed, then. "She is no descendant of mine." 

An ugly grin. "Is that so, Neophyte? Or should I say―Latula Pyrope?"

"That is no longer my name." She can't believe her auricular sponge clots; to call an adult troll by their hatch-given name is a grievous insult. Of course, this is the Empress of Alternia―she does what she wants. "I am Neophyte Redglare."

"Certainly," the Condescension says amiably, flipping one hand as if to brush off the rough patch. "But if you're so quick to disown this young Pyrope, surely you don't care that she's upstairs right now, clinging to life?"

This stops her; her red-gloved hands curl into fists. She does care. Though taking an interest in one's immediate descendants isn't commonplace, she can't help but be invested in Terezi Pyrope―she sees so much of herself in the girl. Love of the law, intelligence, cunning. 

"What do you mean?"

The Empress smiles. "Now you're interested."

♏

She returns to her quarters, having sent the girl away with promise of a discussion later, and finds the Dolorosa flipping through the ship's log. Uninteresting. Rather than disturb the jade blood, she settles down at her desk and reaches for her journal.

She wants to say something to the troll, anything, but she doesn't think the words will come, and she's taught herself not to speak if prose doesn't come steadily. A fumbling tongue is weak. Emotion, anything beyond the carnal pleasures―weak. And she would hate for her slave to think that the delicate balance of power between them has shifted in the slightest.

Slave, what an awful word―she prefers servant. 

Leisurely, she reads through the entries of the last few nights, a quiet reminder of all the things she ought to take care of. There are little things―unimportant tasks that she can shove on her first mate―and one much more pressing matter to contend with. The name _Dualscar_ is underlined harshly, so forcefully that the tip of the quill has scratched a tear in the heavy parchment.

Her hand tightens around the quill. Just his name is enough to send an angry blue flush to her cheeks. No, she definitely needs to see him―he's ruined too much already. Intervention is necessary in a healthy rivalry.

♐

He comes to a stop beside a river. Sparse trees and dewy grass stretch out below the clear, star-studded sky, accented by the quiet song of running water. It's peaceful. So peaceful that he, so far from peaceful that it's laughable, feels almost like an intruder.

The hoofbeast is left to its own devices, nickering at the sudden food source below its feet. He carries her daintily to the grass nearest the river and sets her limp body down. If his estimations are correct, he doesn't have long before she springs up again, ready to tear his throat free. And what will he do then? Let it happen? Knock her unconscious again? Absurd. 

He sits back, rests his arms on his knees, and watches her; two sweeps away haven't been good to her. Hair wild, skin scarred, clothes stained and torn. She embodies the hunt, he thinks, and if he knows anything about her, then she's proud of the fact. Sometimes, he wonders if he _does_ know anything about her. Perhaps she's changed. He wouldn't know, anyway.

Their moirallegiance is gone and he can't delude himself any other way. But like this, he can pretend that they're only watching the stars and she's fallen asleep by his side, like they used to, and when she wakes up they're going back to the city together.

But pretending isn't for soldiers.

The reality is this, when she wakes: he will have a choice. Kill her, or be killed by her. Kill her, and return to his livelihood of slaughter, to unfair laws and global oppression―or be killed, and allow her to return to a livelihood of survival and necessity. To a lifestyle that she doesn't deserve.

♎

"Care to hear more?" the Empress purrs. "Of course you do. You see, your descendant's darling little client stabbed her and ran for the protection of big, bad Mindfang."

"Mindfang," she repeats, barely above a breath. The object of her near obsession, the one criminal to escape her, the constant slash mark on her perfect record; it all adds up. How could such a vile troll's descendant be anything but an equally lawless vagrant?

"Correct. Of course, I won't interfere. Mindfang's girl is higher on the spectrum than yours―there's nothing I can do. It is the law."

The law is always right, she thinks, but it's more to keep herself under control than to affirm her belief in the system.

The Empress continues, "If you'd like to see her, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Isn't conscious if I remember correctly."

"I would," she says stiffly, not wanting to admit that the Condescension has deduced something about her correctly.

"Not so fast," the seadweller cautions. She leans forward. "When you next see your beloved Highblood, tell him I'm waiting."

She straightens her back, and nods.

♏

She sends the Dolorosa away for a time, wanting to speak to Vriska in private, and is waiting for the girl at her desk when her quarters's door opens hesitantly and a pale face appears.

"Come in, dear. Sit down."

She does as she's told, shutting the door behind her and taking a seat before the wide old desk. Again, it's such a change; her demeanor is completely different. Quiet and defiant, she thinks. There's a hard edge to her brow, her mouth pulled down just a little at the corner. The white square of a bandage is stark against her skin.

"Tea?" she asks the girl, dropping cubes of sugar into her own cup. A quick shake of the head―a decline.

"What do you want from me?" Vriska's one eye narrows, fists clenched on the arms of her chair. 

Despite herself, she raises fine eyebrows. "My, you have changed. And to answer your question―nothing but information, darling, and then you're free to leave."

"Fine."

"Lovely," she says brightly, cooling the brew with a wave of her hand. "So. The trial."

The girl recounts the tale, both hands clenched on the arms of her chair, her gaze firmly planted on her lap. Her shoulders are stiff, expecting to be struck. By the time she's finished, she lifts her head slightly and glares.

"Interesting." Something comes to mind. "And? Your legislacerator?"

Something deeper than regret flashes in her eye, something pained, and she drops her gaze again. "She's probably dead, by now."

"How's that?"

"I killed her," she says; then, with less conviction: "I killed her."

She sits back, setting the tea down on its saucer. "You seem dissatisfied."

"No shit," she snaps, before swallowing visibly. "I mean. I didn't really want her _dead_ , I just _hated_ her so much and she was going to kill me―"

"So? I don't see the problem."

"I _killed_ her." 

"You say that as if you've never killed before."

"Of course I have!"

"Quiet, now," she laughs, smooth in the silence. "Let me tell you something about killing, love."

♐

Her eyes flick open in one half of a second; in the next, she's out of her sprawl on the grass and crouched before him, claws extended. He doesn't react.

As he's expected, this stops her.

He's sorry that, yet again, he can't help her. Sorry that she isn't going to get the fight she wants. He's all out of fight, drained to the bone, and if she wants to kill him he _still_ can't decide whether or not he'll do anything to stop her. At the moment, he feels as if he's leaning towards doing nothing at all. 

Death is the greatest failure to highbloods―an offense unequaled by any other. Shame upon those who die prematurely. All highbloods should look to their great and terrible Empress, nearing four hundred sweeps and not appearing a day over one hundred and fifty, as a model of the perfect troll, one whose lifespan is as long as the universe; and though this perfection can't ever be reached, it is still a goal all are expected to strive towards.

If he dies tonight he will have the gods above to answer to; the trolls below will spit on his grave and curse his name.

His pride cringes at the thought. A deep-set part of him wants to listen to this haughty side of himself and end her. But he's aware of where that very same pride has gotten him, and he wants nothing to do with it. He leaves it up to chance.

Her feral gaze pins him in place. "Coward. Aren't you going to fight me?"

"No."

Her lip curls, not from anger or rage, but from confusion: "What's that supposed to mean? Some dirty highblood trick?"

"No. If you wish to kill me, you're free to do so." He sits cross-legged upon the wet grass, running his fingers gently over the blades. If this is the last sensation he feels before his death, he won't be disappointed. 

She pounces, but they both know her blood pusher isn't in it―the weak-willed launch barely jostles his wide frame. She kneels before him. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, wrists straining forward; the tips of her claws brush his back. It won't take much for her to murder him. A downward thrust of the blades and then a quick recoil, taking a chunk of his spine with her, would be appropriate.

The death blow doesn't come. She sits back, facing him, her shoulders falling rapidly with harsh breaths. "You're vile."

"Extremely."

♎

She's guided downstairs to an infirmary; the walls and floors are frigid marble, sterile and white, and the floor space is divided between rows of recuperacoons, cots, and examination tables. A black-uniformed medislayer directs her to an occupied bed.

Terezi Pyrope doesn't move when she approaches, lying perfectly still upon the stiff mattress. It would be difficult to describe her without first mentioning the heavy bandages under her shirt, then the pallor of her skin, and finally the unnatural boniness about her. Her eyelids are stained teal. At the sound of heels on marble, bloodshot eyes flicker open.

"Gently," she cautions, resting a hand on the girl's shoulder. She settles down on a stool by the cot and removes her hand slowly. 

Terezi Pyrope pauses in her attempt to sit up and settles for turning her head slightly to meet her commander's red glasses. Her voice is rasped with disuse: "What are you doing here?"

"Only visiting," she replies, blocking images of the Condescension's smug face from her mind. 

"I failed."

"Hardly, Pyrope. You've done better than most."

The girl's raven eyebrows draw together. "The criminal almost killed me. And got away."

"That was not the objective," she says woodenly. "Your task was to save the Admiral's life, and you did just that."

"Only so that I would have the chance to kill her myself. I couldn't even do that."

"She struck first," she realizes. "I think you're ready."

"For?"

"Your name."

♏

"Life is a fickle thing, isn't it?" she murmurs, running a gloved thumb over her teacup. "Comes and goes so freely. Everyone must die, dear. And killing is just a way of speeding along the process."

"That doesn't help. Sounds like total bullshit."

She chuckles. "Don't be childish, Admiral. You'd be wise to heed me."

"Would I?" The girl leans forward and jabs a finger towards her missing eye. "Look where that got me."

"It's a dangerous life we lead," she says, shrugging off the response. "You knew what you were getting into."

"Spectacular."

"As I was saying." She steeples her fingers and props her chin on them. "You've truly done a public service by killing the girl. She was Redglare's, after all, and any descendant of hers is already a nuisance―"

The girl blinks, surprised. "Hold on. Redglare's?"

"Yes. You didn't know?"

"We suspected," she answers bitterly, leaning back and crossing her arms. "She was practically Redglare incarnate."

"You see? She had to die." 

"Why's that?"

She smiles, showing teeth. "Her interests conflicted with ours. Her death was sealed."

"So? Dualscar sure as hell doesn't have the same 'interests' as us, and you let him get away with it―"

Her calm exterior breaks for a moment, giving way to the fresh irritation beneath. "Dualscar is different. I'll take care of him."

"Sure."

"That's beside the point," she snaps. "Killing is the only way to get what you want, darling, and remember that―it'll hold true for the sweeps to come."

The girl gets a far away look in her eye; when she speaks, it's from behind a closed door. "I think you're right about that."

♐

She doesn't try to kill him again, nor does she try to run. She walks a few paces away down the river and kneels at the shore, dipping her bloodied hands in the running water; he tests it from where he sits and retracts his hand. The water is frigid. She doesn't seem to mind.

He swallows, nervousness building up in his chest. Surely she's going to run now? Or lunge at his throat? Somehow, the prospect is more attractive than this stony silence. At least it's action―as an engineer, action is something he can fix. He can't fix what's not there. After a time, he gets to his feet and takes loud, cautious steps closer.

He gives her fair warning, and as expected, she goes rigid and springs up in an instant. Those awful claws gleam with water. He holds his hands up, non-threatening, and shows that his bow and quiver are discarded behind him. With a warning glance, she drops her hands, but does not disarm.

"What do you want?" she quips, glaring.

"I want to know if you plan to kill me or to leave," he replies, bluntly. "But our rendezvous can't go on forever."

"This is not a rendezvous." Her voice breathes fire. "This is nothing. You are nothing."

"I am aware."

Again, his acceptance of his own failure floors her, and she searches his face for help; she's confused. He offers no aid. 

"My soldiers are either dead, or finishing up their work," he states matter-of-fact-like. "Choose now."

She takes a half-step back, and he knows exactly what she's going to choose. Matters are further complicated by her words: "So this is it? You're going back to those oppressive bastards?"

"It is of my caste to serve the Empress."

She shakes her head, face twisted with contempt for what he's become―or possibly, what he's always been. "Forever loyal to the caste system? I see. Perhaps from your side of the spectrum, that makes sense."

He tries to explain that it's not about social custom―it's his _blood_ , a natural urge inside of him to please the Condescension, even to the tip of his life, but she's a lowblood. She can't understand that. Connection to the Condesce weakens the further your blood is from hers. That is how the Signless broke away―he is, in a way, lucky. Unburdened with a hatch-born duty to the seadwelling queen.

"You would write my reason off as an excuse," he settles on. "It's a waste of words."

"Fine, then. May you die for the Baroness who you honor so much."

She takes his hoofbeast and leaves. Stranded, he sits down once more.

♎

"It is a rite of passage," she explains, watching the girl's expressions change. "A troll's true passage from grubhood to adulthood is marked by their discarding their hatched name, and taking on a title that suits them."

"Like Neophyte?"

"Exactly. Eight letters."

Terezi Pyrope's eyes grow wide, despite her grogginess and apparent pain. "Is it permanent?"

"Titles change." She smiles wryly. "You don't expect me to remain a neophyte forever? It roughly means 'novice.'"

"My mistake."

"Nonsense." She sits up straighter. "Some remain with you for life. Others change."

She swallows and tries to sit up as well, only to lie back down in defeat. "And? How does one get this title?"

"It's given to them," she explains. "Given by an elder, I should say."

"Like you."

"Like me."

They're both quiet for a time, before Terezi Pyrope speaks: "What do you have in mind?"

She purses her lips. The thought came to her sometime before; but she holds her tongue. "Soon. Your trials have been great―you're nearly there."

The girl seems crestfallen, sinking slightly into the sheets, and the neophyte sits back as well, folding red-gloved hands on her lap. Despite her refusal, the word bounces around in her think pan, begging to be said aloud. 

_Draconic._

♏

She reaches the coast-side tavern a mere hour before the sun's arrival.

A wide-eyed waiter shows her to a private block; unlike the dusty interior of the pub, this block is draped with fine silk on its walls and gold-inlaid floors. The troll pulls her chair out for her, and bows out hurriedly, returning with a cup of coffee almost instantaneously.

She's just mixing the sugar in when Dualscar arrives, striding in unannounced and unaccompanied. His bare arms are tight at his sides. Despite his rigid posture, a smug smile has crawled onto his face, curling the scars over his nose upwards―two more smirks. She remembers giving him those scars. Giving him his name.

He sits down across the polished table from her, but it's not wide enough to keep him very far. She can see the lines of stress and age beginning to form at his temples; the saltwater still tacked to his hair, the muscles straining in his arms and neck. 

"You wanted to speak to me," he begins, throwing one arm over the back of his chair comfortably. "And I'm here."

She wants to wring his throat and tear the superiority out of him, but has long since mastered the art of civility. "So to the point, General. Don't you care for some stimulating conversation?"

"Hardly. Not with you, at the least."

"I'm hurt," she lies. As if a little quip could matter to her in the light of his more grandiose grievances. "But if you're so insistent―the trial was an absolute charade."

He hides another smile behind his napkin. "I was only protecting my queen, Marquise. None can fault me for being too cautious."

"Too cautious? Rather, too fraudulent. It was a clever scheme, of course. I applaud you. I've lost face with many former colleagues―everyone seems to think my crew is full of rats and spies. All the misplaced trust they've given me over the sweeps, gone."

"That was the plan, yes," he chuckles, eyes glinting dangerously. "You never should have sent those children in your place. Though it made my end of things much easier, it was a poor choice on your behalf."

She lends him a steel-edged smile, matching his. "You think you've won, don't you?"

"Victories like these do tend to provide an air of confidence, I admit."

"I wouldn't let my guard down, my dear kismesis," she sneers, using the blackrom term as jeeringly as possible. "Spiders tend to bite."

"Is that so?" He tilts forward slowly, so that his chair creaks in a long, breaking note. 

Her blood boils; here is her rival, rubbing his betterment in her face and enjoying it the way a grub enjoys candy. She wants to dig her nails into him and make him bleed and taste the miserable satisfaction on his lips. Measured, she sets her cup down and meets his eyes.

"Quite."

She doesn't completely register him leaning fully across the table, but his rough hand under her chin is extremely apparent, as is the salty descent of his lips onto hers. Pathetic. She sinks her fangs into his bottom lip, and he tugs her hair. Knee to the groin. Hand around the throat. Routine.

"I hate you," she breathes. She has him pinned against the displaced table, hands curled in his collar, drawing blood wherever she can. 

"Likewise."

♐

They come for him, of course, riding their steeds and nursing their wounds.

The battle was lost. The archeradicators were forced to retreat, bringing down a large number of rebels as they did so, and tracked their commander's signal―at their words, he lifts a hand to the pulsing chip sewn into the breast of his jumpsuit. He can never escape them.

He lies, saying he chased a possible carrier of the Signless's book into the wilderness; his hoofbeast was shot dead somewhere east of here and the criminal escaped. A grievous failure, but none of the trolls have the right to call out their superior for it. They remain silent. 

He's given a young soldier's hoofbeast to ride and they begin to move, following the course of the river. He rides ahead, as is expected. The soldiers behind him move sluggishly, bogged down with the absence of victory, and whisper questions between each other― _How did he let the shitblood escape? He's_ Darkleer _._

He ignores the tittering and focuses on keeping a steady pace, blocking her words from his mind, blocking everything about her out―but it does little to help. He needs her more than he'd care to vocalize and he will need her until the night he dies. Whether or not she feels the same is clear to him: she has moved on, surely. Hurt and betrayed and free of him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> exams exams exams exams exams exams chapter exams exams


	21. ♑ - ♒ - ♓

♑

He watches the Summoner fly away, fly away, fly away. Red blood drips to the ground as the rebel disappears, mutant in his arms.

He stays rooted to the spot, as large and as motionless as one of the trees ringing the clearing. He takes a deep breath. The smell of decay, of bodies left to rot, calms him, clears his think pan some. Not that it needs clearing. But he knows he won't get anywhere if he can only imagine ripping the Summoner's wings off, one, two, and tearing them to shreds. He has somewhere to be.

Even as he turns back the way he came, his hands can't stop curling at his sides, enamored with the thought of causing pain―he feels his fingers twitch around imaginary throats and pull imaginary bones. But that's normal, for him. Living and breathing with murder on the mind. He lets out a low, throaty chuckle, raspy even to his conditioned auricular sponge clots, and lets it escalate into full-blown roars of laughter.

If any of the Summoner's peons are still around, they're scared shitless. He hopes he finds some. 

♒

He draws his trousers up lazily, rubbing a hand over his bare chest and chuckling. Violet scratches chase each other across the expanse of his skin. They're already starting to sting.

Bones groaning under his skin, he sits up and reaches blindly for his tunic, one hand braced against the smooth gold floor. The lanterns are dimmed to embers by now. He's merely glad that the tavern's owners have been bright enough to stay out of the private block; it would have been incredibly awkward for a servant to appear before them while they were engaged in _personal_ matters. 

He sweeps the room with a glance, acknowledging the overturned table and chairs, the scratches on the silk-hung walls, and the general disarray of the place. They really have made a mess of it. To his right, the Marquise reclines easily with her head on a throw pillow, doing nothing to cover herself; she's never been one for modesty in the first place.

She meets his eyes, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger. "I imagine you'll be leaving now?"

"Quite right." He gets to his feet, stepping into his boots and pulling on his shirt in the same movement. "It was fun, as usual."

"Agreed."

It's always like this between them, after their caliginous affairs; politeness to the extreme and a general calm. The excess irritation, the flames of their rivalry, all of it is burnt away, at least for the time being, and come the next night they'll both be at each other's throats again. Until then, they revel in the lack of animosity and get along with their lives. 

He pats his hair down, makes himself presentable, and steps over the remains of a chair. The Marquise is already dressed by now, coercing her wild hair into place under her hat. He gestures around at the mess. "We've gone and wrecked the place."

"You say that as if you care."

"Yes, it does come across that way, doesn't it?" he chuckles, kicking shards of china out of his way. "Have fun with this mess; it's on your tab."

She returns a wicked smile of her own. "Hardly. The owner and I are in a bit of an agreement―he won't mind. And if he does, he's smart enough not to raise a complaint."

"How evil. I could put you on trial for bullying lowly shopkeepers," he threatens, without any threat in his voice at all. He draws her in with an arm around her waist, presses his next words into the already-bruising skin of her throat. "Be good while I'm away."

"Never."

♓

Everything's going wrong.

It's one thing after another, all of her pieces falling apart, assets burning down and allies dropping dead. The damned chip is stolen―she shudders to think about what the rebels will do with it. The moon base is gone, blown to bits by a spy, a _lowblood spy_ ; how he ever made it to the base in the first place is a marvel, as is the boundless intel he must have taken with him. There's the countless attacks her soldiers failed to thwart; her heiress's escape to Alternia; she _still_ doesn't have the mutant's book. 

And above all, there's the debacle of the execution―the Signless's flight and the lowblood siege. The Empire's power sent the rebels running, of course; but not before Darkleer and the Highblood's failure to kill the Summoner and keep the Signless. Explosions. She watched it all from her ship. Live feed on an array of monitors, each a unique angle of the embarrassing affair.

She can't have this. She's supposed to be feared, unstoppable―she remembers a time when lowbloods wouldn't speak her name or look up when the flagship passed overhead. Now, the audacity of them must be without limits; they fight as persistently as her own soldiers, perhaps more. They don't fight for money, or power; only their own twisted ideals and a warped sense of patriotism. Not patriotism to Alternia―patriotism to themselves.

Her frustration doesn't manifest in words or action, but in a tiny furrow between her eyebrows, almost minuscule. It gives nothing away about her deep-set fury at this war. The war that shouldn't be―how her superior forces haven't absolutely _crushed_ the infidels still astounds her, and every lost battle and unseen attack is another blow to her pysche, another strike against her soldiers. This can't go on much longer.

♑

He hears a distant honk, echoing throughout the quivering forest, and chuckles.

So his boy is here.

He trails after the noise lazily, breaking branches in his massive hands playfully and spearing the slower featherbeasts with them. His footsteps are cannons in the quiet. He enjoys that, that he can make so much noise and upset the stillness; it's a blessing. He doesn't do well with silence. It irks him, and an irked Highblood is a dangerous one. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Another honk, closer. He now sees traces of face paint on the trees, marks of his descendant's presence. He wonders idly if the boy actually found the mutant; he wouldn't be surprised. Kid's eager to please. He grins and picks up the pace, bulldozing the shrubbery and plants in his way in excitement. Where the hell is this kid?

He breaks into a modest clearing, about eight feet across, where the stumps of long-gone trees jut from the ground like teeth. Upon one of these stumps is a sight that makes his face contort into an awful grin; young Karkat Vantas, bound at the wrists and ankles, with putrid red blood smeared across his cheek. The greatest guffaw of the night billows from clown-painted lips. 

To the side is a navy blood in cracked goggles and an archeradicator's uniform whom he does not know and does not care to know; more importantly is Gamzee motherfucking Makara, standing beside his mutant captive, whispering something in the boy's ear. At his ancestor's arrival, his bloodshot eyes lift slowly.

"I caught the little fucker," Gamzee breathes, grabbing the boy by the hair and shaking him. "I caught him."

His ancestor stalks forward. He doesn't know if he's pleased yet―this mutant is the least important fugitive on the wanted list. Just a boy without anything to offer; basic knowledge of the lowblood infantry, perhaps. Nothing special. He's not the Signless, a treasure trove of secrets, and he's not Dave Strider, the Signless's charge. But it sure will be fun to make him bleed.

He drops to one knee before the mutant, bringing his face close to the red-streaked one and breathing out, watching the boy's hair blow back from his forehead and his expression twist into disgust. "Looks like you did, shit for brains. Looks like you did."

♒

He is summoned to the flagship; the beeper at his belt, connecting him to his Empress, blinks purple at him. Though he hardly wants to entertain her―she's sure to be in a poor mood―he isn't stupid enough to resist her call. That would simply be suicide.

He doesn't have to make an appointment at the shuttle station; one look at his rank and stature and the employees are tripping over themselves to help him, going so far as to evict an elderly pair of seadwellers from their shuttle for his use. He doesn't thank the employees or apologize to the couple. He could care less about them.

The spacious interior of the shuttle is a comfort to him, the kind of grandeur that he's used to, and he helps himself to something vaguely alcoholic from the lit-up bar. Sinking into a plush seat with his drink, he rubs one arm lightly (claw marks furrow across his skin) and imagines what the Condescension wants with him. Perhaps nothing more than to rant at him; perhaps to give him news. He hopes for the latter―he's terribly bored. 

The divider between the cabin and the cockpit slides down seamlessly, and a terrified troll in a pilot's uniform bows awkwardly to him from her seat. She hurriedly starts the engine. "We'll be boarding the flagship very soon, General. Please enjoy your flight." 

Wordlessly, he nudges the button to replace the barrier between them. He doesn't care to intimidate the poor servant at present. 

The Marquise was exactly the distraction he'd been looking for, but the more distance he put between them, the more restless he grows. The release of frustration only lasts for so long. Sadly, his plots against her aboard the flagship he's headed for now didn't destroy her the way he'd hoped; she's still in commission, and he's disappointed in himself. He'd been hoping for a clean sweep. A final, near-fatal blow to truly prove his betterment of her. 

But there would be plenty of time for that later.

♓

With her summons out to Dualscar, and a message being sent to the Highblood by means of the legislacerator, she relaxes some.

She's going to get things done soon. Set plans in motion. With her two most loyal subjects―and in some respects, her most powerful players―on their way, the threat posed by the insurgents becomes that much less pressing. When she sits back and thinks on it, she doesn't know why she worries at all. They're dirt under her feet. They've survived this long because she's allowed them to. 

To pass the time, she scrolls through reports from the battlefield on her palmtop, each increasingly negative, until she crosses one that makes her royal blood simmer. A report from the Capital City no less. Surprisingly, it's not about the debacle at the amphitheater―it's a recounting of a massive downtown explosion, with rumors of lowblood insurgents. Insurgents in _her_ city. She pulls up the report warily, lip curling over her fangs.

The more she reads, the more she wants to descend from her flagship and wreak havoc on her enemies down below; but that wouldn't be a strategically sound decision, and she knows better than to throw her own life around like that. She's too important. Better to watch and direct where they can't reach her than to risk losing everything on-planet.

Excerpts burn into her oculars― _highblood soldiers killed in the blast_ ― _armed insurgents throughout the streets_ ― _death toll rising_. Images are stuffed into the article here and there, snapshots of a gutted building and a blasted street and, worst of all, a full block of soldiers in parade dress smeared across the asphalt in various stages of stone cold _dead_.

She doesn't see how it can possibly get any worse―not until she gets to the last line of the article, an addendum that makes her fingers curl into claws. 

_The Heiress Apparent and her accomplice, both outlawed by the Empress, were spotted at the scene._

♑

He ends up in a shuttle with his descendant sitting at his right hand, and a mutant at his left.

Perhaps he missed the other boy, and the greatest prize of all―the Signless himself―but this is a victory in itself. One mutant is better than none. Something for the Empress to be placated with, while he tore up the surface of the planet in search of the other two. And he _would_ find them. And if he had any say in it, he would enjoy himself, too. 

The mutant is out cold, his head bobbing as the shuttle bucks upward, but the clown next to him is wide awake. "What are we gonna do with the little fucker?"

He smiles. "What aren't we gonna do with him?"

At this, the pissblood's head whips up, and he has to clamp down on the urge to slap him hard across the face and watch that candy red sludge arc across the interior of the dark shuttle. The wild crimson eyes flick around, and when the boy realizes where he is, and who he's with, they shut tightly, his shoulders slumping. "Fuck me."

He leans towards the mutant's seat, wrapping a hand around the boy's tiny neck. He wants to snap it. He thinks about it, hard, imagining the vertebrae in his spine bursting free of his skin in a shower of red, and it's so delicious that he has to pinch himself to keep from making his dream come true. The mess he'd make with the Empress by killing the only useful product of the night wouldn't be funny at all.

♒

"I have an assignment that only my most trusted general could shoulder."

His knee burns where it digs into the cool marble floor of the throne block. He keeps his head low as the Empress regards him, to hide the fond, flattered smile on his face, and leans his forearm on his thigh in a respectful kneel. His massive ego is almost always inflated by visits to the Condescension. 

"Anything for my Queen," he says regally, lifting his head to meet her eyes. 

She smirks, not unkindly, from atop the throne. "Truly, you are all one could ask of in a subject. Which is why I'm entrusting you with this."

"Only say the words."

"I'm sure you've heard of what happened in the Capital City?" she asks, eyebrows arching unpleasantly. 

This isn't where he saw this going. "In passing, yes. Explosions. The parade was disrupted."

"That's where you step in, General," she explains. "This madness has gone on long enough. End it however you need to. I don't care what resources you use; take all the trolls you need."

He unfolds from his kneel, standing erect and then bowing low. "I live to serve the Empire."

"Not so fast," she interrupts. He looks up warily. "This is not your main objective. Above all else, you _must_ find our descendants. Immediately."

"Of course."

"Then you're dismissed." 

He leaves the throne block in a rush for the first time in sweeps, think pan racing with new information. His descendant is there, then? With the girl? He shoves past an usher who jumps at the chance to help him and tracks a course for the shuttle hangar, already calculating. He can't have them escape again; last time he took the blame, and this time, the only thing he'll be responsible for is bringing them back.

He can see it now: back to her cell for the girl, and for the boy? Execution. Treason against the Empire can't be excused without severe punishment. He scowls to think of his own reputation, more damaged by the night as his descendant slanders his name with criminality. He hopes to kill the boy personally; surely the E%ecutor won't mind sharing one.

At the hangar, he allows an usher to set him up with a shuttle and a driver, and straps in for another circuit back to the planet.

♓

It seems like as soon as Dualscar leaves, the Highblood arrives.

The clown kicks the doors open and hauls something in by the hair―a boy, she sees, with crimson irises. Oh, it gets better and better. The Grand Highblood half-carries the mutant up the aisle between the pillars, depositing him at her feet with a wild grin on his face. "Merry Gristmas."

"Glad to see you scraped something useful out of this," she notes, looking down her nose at the lowblood. 

The Highblood drops his foot on the boy's back, grinding him into the cool marble floor, grinning like a madman all the while. "You should never have doubted me. Don't I ALWAYS motherfucking deliver?"

"You do," she agrees, allowing him a moment's praise before morphing her expression into one of dissatisfaction. "But you brought me the _least_ important mutant of the three. At least the other child knew the Signless personally―this one is almost useless."

"The Summoner has the other one. And the Signless is gone."

"Disappointing."

"If you don't want him," the Highblood reasons, "I'll motherfucking KEEP HIM."

She rolls her eyes at his bloodlust. "Not necessary. We may have use for the boy yet . . . perhaps another execution? One more protected, and more public . . ."

_"Sounds fun."_

"Indeed." She unfolds from her throne and descends the shell-studded steps leading up to it. At the base of the steps, the boy has his forehead pressed to the floor, as if he wants to sink through the marble and disappear. She's probably right about that. 

Rather than kneeling, and stooping to his level, she looks down at him sternly. "Eyes up, boy."

He complies, looking up without uncurling from his crouch, and she can see how tremors rock through him. Smirking, she encourages him. "On your feet, now."

The boy gets up on shaking legs, shoulders hunched, but keeps eye contact all the while. When he's standing, he takes a cautious half-step back―into the Grand Highblood. Horrified, the child looks over his shoulder at the beast behind him; trapped between two evils, the fight goes out of him. He turns back to her.

She inspects him carefully, turning his face this way and that, taking in the boniness of him, and drops her hand. "Take him to the infirmary. And make sure he stays there."

"Come on, child," the Highblood shout-whispers, catching the boy by the shoulders. "Let's take a walk."

♑

He leaves the throne block with his prey gripped by the upper arm, dragging him along―his strides are much too long for the mutant to keep up with, and he finds it hysterical. The boy remains silent as they go.

"You're going to like it here," he tells the boy. "You're going to fucking love it."

The mutant stays silent, apparently too afraid to speak, though his face is whipped into a tough scowl. No weakness. The clown thinks it to be quite funny. 

An usher opens the door to the infirmary for him, gaze down for fear of making eye contact. He grins and shoves the boy in ahead of him. A pair of medislayers blanch and try to look busy, hoping not to get sucked into his chucklevoodo. He ignores them, getting the boy by the scruff of his neck and strong-arming him between the cots and tables to the back of the block. 

He smiles wider than he has all night.

She's there, the Neophyte, leaning over a bed with a still, thin figure in it, and she turns instinctively as soon as he approaches. Her eyebrows are quirked over her glasses. No longer interested in the mutant child, he shoves him into the hands of a medislayer and closes the distance between them, towering over her as he always does. And, as always, she isn't intimidated. 

"Highblood," she says curtly.

"Neophyte."

"The Condescension wanted to speak with you."

"Already did."

"That's good to hear."

Just seeing her and hearing her voice makes the tautness in his muscles dissipate, the constant need to rend flesh from bone flit away, and he takes her thin wrists in his large hands. He could snap them like twigs. Despite this, he's never entertained the thought, never imagined hurting her the way he does just about everyone else―and that's got to be the most mystical miracle of them all. 

"And the boy?" she asks, breaking him from his scrambled thoughts. 

"Mutant. Motherfucker's going to _die_ pretty soon." He's ecstatic to be sharing the news with her, but she doesn't take to them as gleefully as he does, only making a noncommittal sound in her throat.

That's not funny.

♒

The Capital is in ruins.

Not all of it, of course. Just a few blocks that were caught in the explosion. When he arrives, escorted by a police officer, he can barely recognize the downtown streets―the buildings around the blast site crumple, first floors gutted, and spill debris onto the chunks of asphalt that were once the road. Cool blood slicks the walls and ground. Fires have yet to be extinguished, but they're small enough for him to avoid as he takes measured steps through the frightened civilians still at the scene. 

He comes to the place where the marching soldiers dropped, bloodied and dead in service uniforms, their shakos and plumes barely hanging to their heads. Most are unrecognizable. Here, in the middle of the street, it's clearly visible where the attack was staged―the second story window of an older building to his right. He turns, standing where the commander of the shoulders has fallen, and sweeps the building with his eyes. Nothing of use. 

He was told to put an end to this, but it was over long before he touched down; he knows that the lowblood insurgents are all dead, having killed themselves as soon as the flames died down and reinforcements arrived. He shakes his head. Typical of them, to cowardly end their lives before justice could be executed. As he approaches the building they used as a base, he sees their bodies, laid out on the sidewalk. A highblood with a bandage on his head spits on them as he passes.

Deciding to focus on his other objective, he enters the building cautiously, knowing that it might fall on top of him with enough provocation. This won't be fun for him. For all he knows, the two fugitives are dead under the rubble outside, or they've already ran. The chances of them sticking around are slim to none. 

Inside, the light is dim and chunks of debris are spewed about. He inspects the wide first floor without much finesse. He's bored, and he doesn't see the point in sticking around. His targets are already gone, he thinks. Long gone. He ought to put out a reward with the police and let them do the job for him.

As he's turning back to the exit, the quietest skitter of broken concrete being displaced reaches his auricular sponge clots. He revolves in place.

♓

Useless.

To think, the Signless and his boy are still running around on-planet. The Summoner, the Disciple, all of them―somehow they're still out there. How her soldiers haven't obliterated them concerns her; though she doesn't entertain the thought that the rebels are somehow _equal_ with their highblood betters, she admits that she hasn't been involved enough in this war. 

Yes, that's it. She just hasn't been trying hard enough. She has so many assets, and so many of them have gone untouched―the lowbloods don't even know the half of her full force. Absentmindedly, she ticks through the weapons she hasn't deployed; the aircraft still docked in space-hangars, the bombs her scientists have engineered, the X47 (no, no, she reminds herself, the spy took that from her). Yes, she has nothing to worry about. 

Except. 

The report of the prison break didn't deeply engage her―things happened, she reasoned, and a few lowblood rebels escaping captivity didn't matter to her―until a final report came through from the disgruntled guards, a report still frozen on the screen of her palmtop. _The Demoness is free._ And though she, personally, is not afraid of the infamous maroon blood, her soldiers have every reason to be. 

She wonders how this returning player will affect the overall war, and knows the answer without question―the escapee is about to make things very difficult for her, if she doesn't stop this soon. 

She sends new orders to a handful of her officers on the field, simple orders that she expects to be executed cleanly and without mistakes: Kill the Demoness.

♑

He leaves the mutant and the girl the Neophyte had come to visit with the medislayers, guiding the legislacerator from the block with a hand on her thin hip. Bony. They're opposites there; he's big, muscle and meat, and she's a walking stick. But he likes the contrast. It's a riot.

As they walk aimlessly, he wonders why she isn't more excited. She just got to see a mutant oinkbeast on the way to slaughter, after all. A real treat. He has to stifle giggles just thinking about it. But her―he eyes her sideways. Her face is pensive. Nothing is given away there, and he pries, just a little.

"The execution will be soon," he tells her, throwing it out there. "That little shitblood is going to get torn to fucking _pieces_."

"That's good." But she doesn't sound sincere. 

"Aren't you motherfucking THRILLED?"

"If the Empire commands it, then so it shall be. My personal feelings aren't important."

He doesn't understand; she should be celebrating with him, raising a glass to the Empire's triumph. The apathy he's reading off her is putting a damper on his mood. And he hates that more than anything.

"What's got you down like the motherfucking ground, mamacita?"

Her eyes remain forward, but her mouth pulls down at the corners. "Perhaps cruelty has gone excused for too long."

"Cruelty? Cruelty is my fucking MIDDLE NAME. If middle names weren't a fucking crock of shit, I mean."

"The boy does not deserve to die in front of millions, humiliated and tortured." Now a muscle jumps in her cheek. "Let him rot in prison. Work in a camp."

"Not my decision," he says, more confused than ever. "But I'll enjoy watching him BLEED."

"I knew you wouldn't understand. Never mind."

♒

His descendant stares at him, defiant, unwavering.

"Boy," he barks, taking a step closer to Eridan. The young troll is worse for the wear, covered in scrapes and bruises and missing his horn to the hilt―but that can be dealt with later. "Where is she?"

Eridan has a rifle clutched in his hands, but he doesn't point it; his eyes are glued to the Ahab's Crosshairs held lazily in his ancestor's fingers. "She's gone." 

"Bullocks," he snaps, leaning Ahab's Crosshairs on his shoulder menacingly. "Tell me where she is and we can get this over with."

"She ran off in the confusion," Eridan repeats, firmly. "If you want her, too, you'd better start looking out there."

A surge of anger crashes over him, and he takes it out on the boy, catching him by his frayed collar and lifting him off his feet. "If you're lying to me, your death will last days and you will _beg_ for it." 

"Not―lying," he coughs back, struggling to breathe.

He drops the boy roughly and steps back. "I have very clear orders, Ampora. And they are going to be carried out."

He strikes the boy across the forehead with the butt of Ahab's Crosshairs, watching as Eridan falls back and hits the dusty floor. 

Ridiculous. He slings his rifle around his back and throws the boy over his shoulder, tracking for the exit with a scowl. This isn't going to blow over well with the Condesce. His orders aren't to be taken lightly. He blanches at the thought of scouring the Capital, already thrown into chaos, for the girl. 

Outside, on the street, drones are already cleaning up the rubble and incinerating bodies. Good. The Empress doesn't need a reminder of this madness. Best to sweep it under the rug and move on, away from her wrath. He steps around pools of blood. No one bothers him, or inquires about the boy hanging limply off him. They recognize his face and his stature. His scars burn. 

He tilts his chin up importantly and thinks he ought to get some wanted posters printed up.

♓

There's one final order to be put into place.

Behind her throne, a bay window serves as a wall, and she stands before it. The view is magnificent; Alternia swallows up her vision, big and beautiful and bursting with life. And, somewhere, rebellion. Rebellion she needs to crush.

She wraps a hand around her trident, spearing it into the marble floor carelessly, and grimaces. 

"Your Imperiousness?"

She does not turn, not caring to look the servant in the eye, too wrapped up in her own thoughts. But she answers. 

"Send out an order."

"Addressed to?"

"Everyone. All soldiers." She watches clouds drift across her planet's southern hemisphere.

The servant swallows audibly. "All of them. And what is the order?"

She turns, finally, and looks him in the eye. "All rebels must die. No exceptions. Burn the prisons. Bomb the camps."

### END OF INTERMISSION: ENTER THE ANCESTORS

### ACT TWO: COLOURS AND MAYHEM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end. intermission, fin. expect more regular updates from here on.
> 
> for those who wanted it, my tumblr is inkwellhero.tumblr.com (that's not a link don't click it i'm sorry i forgot the code please don't click it or you will be frustrated)
> 
> hoping to follow some of you cool cats :3


	22. "What Armies and how much of War I have Seen, what Thousands of Marching Troops, what Fields of Slain ... what Cities in Ashes ... what Wrongs and what Vengeance." - Troll Clara Barton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're still kicking

Your name is FEFERI PEIXES.

You see Eridan's mouth moving, see the veins run like rivers over his temples, but you can't hear a word he's saying. 

You can hear a high keening, not in your ears---it's in your head, stabbing you in the think pan. Your eyes are watering. For an odd moment, you don't understand where you are or what happened.

And then it comes back, all at once, almost knocking you over; Red, the rebels, the bombs. The whole street disintegrating before your very eyes. You remember Eridan throwing himself over you, a troll shield, and hitting the ground hard; then the noise, deafening, the light, the smoke; your eyes swim. The world flickers out and returns in a half-second.

Eridan's leaning over you, mouth still moving but no words coming out. He shakes your shoulders. The motion grinds you a little deeper into the rubble, your back scraping against the remains of the sidewalk. The pain wakes you, brings you back to Alternia, and you shoot up, knocking your forehead into his in an attempt to get up as quickly as possible. 

Noise comes back all at once. 

_"Come on, move!"_ Eridan keeps yelling in your ear, dragging you up by the arm; you don't know where he wants to move _to_ , since all you can see is black smoke tinted with the orange of flames. Screams ghost in and out of it. 

You stumble after him, feet unsure on uneven piles of ruin, and then suddenly, you can breathe, you can see, and you can hear: you're indoors. You recognize the dusty concrete immediately, made even more filthy by the debris that has breezed in through the broken windows. Glass crunches underfoot. Eridan's hand on your arm doesn't loosen until he's dragged you to the far corner of the room, where several crates are stacked. 

The two of you sprawl behind the crates, invisible to anyone looking in from the doorway. It's not perfect but it'll have to work. Eridan presses his back up against a crate and leans around, checking for intruders. The coast is clear (you really like the expression. "Coast" always gets you, but right now, it isn't very funny).

"Now what?" you cough, and it sounds disgusting, like your voice is buried somewhere in the rubble outside. 

"We can't stay here," he growls, his eyebrows furrowed. You can almost see the military side of him churning out ideas, trying to figure out a way that will keep both of you alive. It seems like an unlikely possibility. The police will regroup and storm the building at any minute, to destroy any lowblood rebels that might still be upstairs. 

"Where are we going to go?" You look down at your hands, scraped bad and bleeding lightly. 

He swears. "I don't know. If we try to run out the front, someone will catch us---if we don't die from smoke inhalation, anyway. Stay here, the police find us or those bastards upstairs come down . . . there has to be another way." 

You turn your gaze to the wall a few feet from you, and your eyes fall on a small square of glass at its bottom---a window, just big enough for someone your size to fit through. But not Eridan. 

He sees it at the same time as you, and a grim flash of inspiration hits. He scoots closer and kicks the glass out. It shatters outward. "Fef, go."

"Don't be stupid," you say, voice quivering because he can't _really_ think you'll leave him like this. 

"No, _you_ don't be stupid. Get out of here," he orders, catching your wrist and tugging you closer.

"No!"

"Shit, keep your vvoice down." That little slip on the _v_ in _voice_ tells you just how scared he is---scared of losing you, scared of being caught, scared of death. Your blood pusher thumps hard and out of time in your stomach. "Just go, alright?"

"What about you?" You rip your hand away.

"I'll double around here, try to find a back door or a bigger window. Trust me. I'll get out---"

The front door creaks loudly on broken hinges. You are not alone.

"Who is---" you begin, but his hand comes down on your mouth fast, stopping the words in their tracks. 

He points, eyes wide, at a sliver of space between two of the crates. You look on, and a figure that haunted you for the two sweeps of captivity on the flagship passes in and out of view. Your breath hitches; it's the Orphaner. Dualscar's boots clunk loudly on the concrete. He's looking for something. You, obviously.

Eridan is whispering in your ear, mouth so close that his sharp teeth nearly nip your fin. "Fef, _go_. He can't find both of us. Don't try to fight him, just get out." 

He gets you by the shoulders and all but shoves you towards the window, your hands skidding on the broken glass. You don't even feel it. Fear for him dulls the pain, and you twist awkwardly, try to grab him, keep him from doing something incredibly stupid, but he's already gone, and you only see a flash of his cape as he goes beyond the safety of the crates. 

"Boy."

Dualscar's voice cleaves the silence. You freeze.

"Where is she?" the Orphaner growls, taking a few loud steps. 

"She's gone," Eridan says, but he doesn't sound threatening, just scared.

"Bullocks. Tell me where she is and we can get this over with."

Eridan takes an audible breath. "She ran off in the confusion. If you want her, too, you'd better start looking out there."

Eridan makes a choking sound, and the Orphaner speaks, outraged: "If you're lying to me, your death will last days and you will _beg_ for it."

"Not―lying," Eridan chokes. You can't move. You have to . . . 

Something---Eridan?---thuds back to the ground. "I have very clear orders, Ampora. And they are going to be carried out."

An ugly crack. The sound of something striking bone, you think, followed by the noise of Eridan's body hitting the floor. A swishing sound---is Dualscar picking him up? 

You can't stick around to find out. Eridan didn't make this sacrifice so you can freeze up like an idiot. 

So you roll onto your stomach and army-crawl through the window, cutting yourself in a million places on the broken glass. The window lets out into a small back alley, narrow, and you get shakily to your feet. Surely Dualscar has already found you. Surely he's going to round the corner any second now and bring you back---

You clamp down on the panic. No use getting yourself worked up. You have to move. 

You opt to go left and jog down the length of the alley. At its end, you lean out, look left and right up the side street you've stumbled upon; you only see a handful of highbloods running from the disaster, and you follow them. For once, your unkempt appearance is perfectly alright in the Capital. 

You keep up with the fleeing highbloods for less than ten minutes. 

As you're passing the mouth of an alley, a strong hand snakes out and gets you by one of your bleeding forearms, and your panic comes to a head; the hand is Dualscar's, it's Red's, it's your ancestor's---

You lash out with your other hand, strike what feels like a nose, draw back, strike again. You're not going to be captured, hell no---even when more hands join in and drag you deeper into the dark alley, you keep thinking this, a mantra as you struggle---and then a voice:

"Stop fighting, damn it, we're trying to help you!"

~ATH

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS.

You can barely tell your daymares from reality anymore. 

You wake up covered in pale red sweat, face pressed into the cool metal floor, air sacs expanding and contracting with each of your rapid breaths. Whatever you were just dreaming about was pretty awful. Probably not as bad as your current situation, but still bad. You block the dream out. 

It takes a little squirming, but you manage to get up on your knees. Not an easy task with your hands cuffed behind your back. They're laser-lined steel, top of the line, and every time you move them too much the white hot lasers on the insides of the cuffs burn your wrists. You've woken up with tears in your eyes and blood running down your arms more than a few times. 

The fluorescent lights of your cell flicker overhead. Groaning, you scoot towards the door, a nondescript metal slab in a nondescript metal wall. You hate yourself just enough to lean your forehead against the door and absorb the fact that you're less than three inches of steel away from freedom (except not really, since you're on the flagship and you're going to die). 

You stay that way for a good ten minutes. Just as you're thinking you ought to move, locks click in the door, and you scramble back on your ass just in time, escaping being creamed in the face with the steel. Fucking fantastic. A visitor. 

"RISE AND FUCKING SHINE, SHITBLOOD." 

Even better.

The Highblood ducks his head to come inside, massive feet stamping the ground like thunder. You cower without meaning to, then shiver a little and straighten up; anything to not look completely pathetic and weak. He notices you bristling and throws his head back, maw opening wide and letting out laughter like out of tune bells, so rancid that one can't imagine such a sound had ever once been remotely beautiful.

"Look at you. You think you're TOUGH? HOT SHIT? You're NOTHING."

Your breathing speeds up; certainly he's bypassing the spectacle of an execution and wants to kill you right here in this cell, and drag it out, paint the walls with your blood and scatter the ground with your bones---

"What the fuck do you want?" you bark.

He laughs again. "AREN'T YOU A RIOT. Motherfucking SALTY. Come on, MUTANT, we have somewhere to be."

You get to your feet unsteadily. He shoots a meaty hand out and gets you by the back of your neck, turning heel and hauling you after him. His strides are fucking huge, and no matter what you try, you can't help but trip and stumble every few steps, bent over almost at the waist by the force of his hand. You can't see where you're going, just the shiny floors, but you think it's for the best. 

He stops abruptly in front of a vaguely familiar door, opens it, and shoves you through; try as you might, you still end up hitting the linoleum hard on your hands and knees. You get a moment's rest before his hand is pulling to your feet again, and you look around, realizing that you're back in the infirmary. 

"Sit tight, you. I'LL BE BACK."

And, laughing all the while, he turns and leaves. 

You don't run. There's no where _to_ run, and the medislayers milling around are likely to stop you before you reach the door. You take a few tentative steps farther into the room; none of them seem interested, so long as you aren't making a break for it, and you gain a little confidence. 

At first glance, nothing piques your interest; not until you see the troll lying very still at the end of the block. 

You approach Terezi Pyrope very slowly, but again, the medislayers ignore you, busying themselves with other tasks. Your blood pusher starts flipping around in your chest cavity, but not in a grub-hood crush kind of way; more like an impending doom kind of way, and your steps to the side of her cot are wooden and forced. 

She's sleeping, red glasses folded neatly on the daystand next to her. A medislayer left a palmtop there as well, open and displaying her medical stats: You catch the words "chest wound" before glancing away. Indeed, one of her bony arms curls loosely around her chest, which rises and falls just barely out of time with a regular breathing pattern. 

Carefully, afraid of a troll swooping down to stop you, you read the full report offered by the palmtop: Vriska Serket stabbed her through the chest with a fucking shard of glass and got away with it, only because she's a caste up and therefore unaccountable for her shitty choices. Your blood boils. Ridiculous. Shit like this is why you can't wait for the hemospectrum to go up in flames. 

You watch her face for a while. It's oddly serene, not twisted into one of her usual shit-eating grins or even one of her cold, calculating masks; it's just Terezi, unburdened, without any kind of farce. It's alien.

Despite yourself, you flash back to that fight in the desert---even now, you feel cool wind slap your face, the grate of sand against your skin, and Terezi's knee pinning you to the ground, her dragon cane poised inches from your blood pusher. She could have killed you then. She _should_ have. 

But she didn't, she kissed you---which you debate to this day. Certainly that was a figment of your war-hardened, deranged, mutant imagination. Because she wouldn't have _kissed_ you. This isn't a rom com, this is a goddamn civil war, and you're on opposite sides of the line. 

So why did your lips burn for the rest of the night? You couldn't have cooked that up.

As you're wondering if you've really lost every shred of sanity you never owned, her eyes open. She stares up at the ceiling without really seeing it, but you know she knows that you're here. 

"Who's that?" she croaks, before taking a long breath. "Smells like . . . candy." 

This time, you're the one who turns and runs.

~ATH

Your name is JOHN EGBERT.

Mindfang calls you into her quarters late in the evening. 

You can't imagine what this is about. She's probably going to send you to another slave auction, or maybe a drug deal, or flat out ask you to kill someone. You wouldn't be surprised at this point. And you feel like you could handle it. 

Except when you open the door to her quarters and see the troll sitting across from the Marquise, you are truly, wholly surprised. 

You recognize Vriska's horns immediately, but the joy of seeing her again, _alive_ , is shattered when she twists around to face you. Bandages cover her left eye. It's not the bandages that get you, though, it's the look on her face; she doesn't look like your kind-of-moirail-kind-of-something-else, she looks beaten and bruised and bloodied without any visible wounds. It's all internal and it shines through her skin like a beacon. 

Mindfang seems unconcerned. "Come in, dear, come in."

So you do, hands shaking. You sit in the chair next to Vriska's. Neither of you say a word. You want to turn and look at her for a long time, try to figure out why she looks the way she does, but you don't dare, not with the Marquise staring down at you like that, an unreadable, humorless smile on her face.

"Now that we're all here," the pirate says, leaning back comfortably, "I have a few matters to discuss." 

You can't imagine how this could possibly end well for any of you.

"As you both know, the Orphaner is hellbent on defeating me in every sense of the word," she begins, almost story-like. She's always so dramatic. Like Vriska. "He's already taken my fleet and men, and nearly succeeded in destroying my political status." 

You do nothing but stare.

"He will not," she snaps, with a steel edge in her voice, "take anything else from me. On the contrary: we are going to be taking something from him. And his Queen."

"Why are you telling us this?" Hearing Vriska's voice for the first time in nights isn't what you thought it'd be; she sounds defensive and hurt and bitter. 

"You two have seen firsthand what crimes the Empress and her loyals are willing to commit." 

It's true; whatever misconceptions you had about the morality of the Empire are shattered. They're bad people, plain and simple. 

"So?"

Mindfang interlocks her gloved fingers. "So we're retaliating. We are unofficially seceding from the Empire."

That hits hard. You swallow. "Um . . . unofficially?"

"Obviously. I wouldn't be stupid enough to publicly declare myself a lowblood supporter---which, on the record, I am not. I'm simply in disagreement with the current highblood leadership."

"And what do you plan on doing about it?" Vriska asks. 

"Listen well," Mindfang says, glancing left and right as if expecting a spy to be lurking in the corner of the room. "The Empress must die."

Vriska laughs, harsh, and you can hardly believe her using such a sardonic response to her hero. "Kill the Empress? Are you fucking insane? She could wipe us out without lifting a finger. We don't even have a fleet." 

"We don't need one," Mindfang replies, smiling serenely. 

"You're batshit."

"You're close-minded, and hurt," the captain barks, showing a flash of anger for the first time. "You blame me for what happened to you and you don't want anything to do with me. I know you only have one eye, but at least _attempt_ to see that the real enemies here are the Condescension and her pet Dualscar."

"Dualscar's not the enemy, he's your kismesis, and this is all some stupid ploy to one-up him," Vriska says bitingly. "You're nothing but a sore loser."

You're shocked; partly because of Vriska's words, but also because of the Marquise's expression---one of betrayal, and some other real emotion you can't place. It doesn't matter. It's so strange to see her without a mask of a face on, without a facade, that you shrink back in your chair a little. 

Mindfang turns her gaze on you and asks you to step outside for a moment, robotic. 

You do, shaking slightly, but when you close the door behind you don't return to your respiteblock. You follow the wall to the knothole in the wood, get down on your knees, and look through the peephole into the quarters, straining your tired auricular sponge clots to make out what they're saying. 

"What changed?" 

Mindfang speaks all measured, emotionless, but it's a bad cover-up.

Vriska replies the way she has since the beginning of the meeting, almost growls. "What changed? How about you let me almost get killed. I lost my _eye_ because of your games. And you expect me to hero worship you like I used to?" 

"You have to know that I never meant for this to happen," Mindfang says, slowly, like she's just now realizing how involved she is in everything that's happened. 

"How am I supposed to know that? You abandoned me up there. I almost died in that fucking metal tin can and you didn't give a single shit about me---"

"Don't say that," Mindfang interrupts. "Don't you dare." 

"Why the hell shouldn't I?" 

"You're my descendant," the captain says.

"So? What does that even matter? Big fucking whoop. Lots of trolls have descendants and most of them don't give a fuck about each other."

Mindfang closes her eyes, almost pained. "Most of them never meet their descendants. But I have, and I see your potential, Vriska. You should know by now that I want the best for you."

"No, you want the best for _you_ , and if I'm all fucked up in the process then it's unfortunate collateral damage, right? You're so selfish." 

They're both quiet for some time. Your knees are starting to hurt.

Mindfang stands and goes to a bookshelf behind her desk, removing a volume and flipping through it aimlessly. She speaks: "Perhaps I have been selfish. We all make mistakes."

"Clearly." 

"I need," Mindfang says, "your help. And . . ."

"And?"

"I don't want you to hate me." 

Vriska's angry side just disappears, and you see her mouth fall open. Her whole demeanor shifts. For a minute, you wonder if Mindfang is exercising her manipulative side, but she can't possibly be faking it; she's too proud to fake a need for someone's approval. Something in your gut tells you this is completely genuine.

"You . . . mean that?"

"I do."

Silence.

"Then . . . let's get to work."

~ATH

Your name is ARADIA MEGIDO.

The shuttle lands in a garbage disposal facility. Low security. You escape with ease, even with your shin possibly fractured and a number of other small injuries.

A forest surrounds the facility, and you amble through it without fear of being attacked or anything of the sort; somehow, everything passes in a blur. You feel empty. You think of Jade Harley, who is hopefully alive; you think of Terezi Pyrope, who is probably a good person; you think of Sollux for reasons you can't place. 

And you think of Equius. But you shut those thoughts out rather quick.

After walking aimlessly for some time, you try to pull your muddled think pan into gear. You have to have a plan. Stumbling around in a forest is bound to deliver you at the feet of a highblood squadron, or worse. But focusing takes a good chunk of your waning energy. 

You have nothing but the clothes on your back. No weapons, no tools. No means of communication. You don't know where you are or whether you're in high or lowblood territory. All in all, it seems pretty hopeless. You have nothing to do but keep walking. 

That changes when you find her. 

You recognize her, except not really; you've never seen her in person, and she only strikes you as familiar because she looks like you---it's in the eyes and the shape of the face and the body structure. She moves differently---purposefully. You feel a little less detached just watching her. 

You know what they call her. The Demoness. She weaves between the trees and sees you, coming to a graceful stop. You do the same, less gracefully. 

She comes closer, almost offensively; but then she takes in the maroon color of your irises, the dried maroon blood on your skin and clothes, and she changes her stance from one of threat to curiosity. 

"I know you," you say, because she hasn't spoken and the silence of the forest unnerves you. No creatures are skittering in the trees. You attribute this fact to her presence.

"Who am I?"

"The Demo---the Handmaid," you say, not sure why; you just remembered the title she used to have, before war happened and changed her the way it changed everyone.

The answer seems to please her. "And who are you?"

"My name is Aradia Megido."

Your name seems to spark some interest. She scrutinizes the torn remains of your uniform. "Lowblood soldier, are you?"

You nod. 

"I will tell you something, Aradia Megido," the Handmaid says, in that odd, guttural voice. "I am on a mission." 

"What mission is that?" You take a half-step back; the sudden fire in her eyes alarms you. 

She smiles wide and ugly. "I am going to kill the Baroness. And you are going to help me." 

And you really have to choice but to accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, I just suck.
> 
> If you're wondering about why I suck so much you can read this tumblr post 
> 
> http://inkwellhero.tumblr.com/post/69657779789/hello-i-dont-want-to-sound-rude-or-anything-but


	23. "What, then, was War? No mere Discord of Flags, but an Infection of the Common Sky." - Troll Robert Graves

Your name is JADE HARLEY.

Mourning is not common among trolls, but you're drowning in it.

Bec can sense that something's wrong, and he keeps himself pressed to you at all times, his warm side a silent comfort against your leg as you trek through the forest with him, away from the shuttle lot and the horror of what you've done. He whines occasionally, tries to dredge you out of your low; it doesn't help. You keep hearing guards shouting in your ears and Aradia's last, grim expression is pasted to the backs of your eyelids. 

Meanwhile, the chip burns in your fist. 

You're clenching it so tight it feels fit to cut your palm open, but somehow you feel safer being able to physically touch it rather than stuff it in your sylladex. It's real this way, a tangible reward. Something that's worth dying for.

Holding it also makes you imagine a target on your back---surely highbloods are going to burst out of the underbrush any minute now, take the chip, kill you. Though you vaguely believe that this area is uninhabited and therefore neutral, you can never be too careful. You find a particularly thick tangle of shrubs and burrow under them, concealing yourself from onlookers. Bec wriggles in close to you, eyes pealed for passerby.

You boot up your palmtop and open Trollian, wincing a little to see that twinArmageddons [TA] and apocalypseArisen [AA] are both offline. 

For a moment, you're floored; you don't know who to contact for help. Fear for their lives is forefront in your mind---who else are you going to condemn to death? You buck up and focus. Of your few chums, you can't figure out who would be most likely to help you; you think it's out of mere nostalgia that you select turntechGodhead [TG].

He's offline. This is silly.

\- - gardenGnostic [GG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG]\- -

GG: hi dave  
GG: this is kind of stupid i know   
GG: sorry   
GG: i guess youre not there  
GG: not that i would want to ask you for help :(  
GG: if anything happened to you i would feel terrible   
GG: even worse than i do right now, and thats saying something   
GG: i just hope youre okay   
GG: we havent talked in a really long time you know  
GG: but youre probably busy  
GG: wherever you are   
GG: this is dumb   
GG: im wasting a lot of time but   
GG: being a revolutionary isnt all its cracked up to be???  
GG: i mean  
GG: this is what ive dreamed of for a long time  
GG: and i guess i always knew that people would have to die for the war to end  
GG: but i wasnt ready   
GG: im just a kid   
GG: that must be weird coming from me  
GG: all ive told you for sweeps and sweeps is how were all going to save the world and hear i am, blubbering about it   
GG: i guess no one is ever really ready for something like this  
GG: anyway  
GG: i think i just needed someone to talk to and youve always been there for me so i thought youd be a good choice  
GG: but you must be really tied up right now sorry   
GG: ill just go 

\- - gardenGnostic [GG] ceased trolling turntechGodhead [TG]\- -

Bec whines in your ear.

For whatever reason, your eyes are prickling like you might cry, which is entirely _stupid_ and something only huge _babies_ would do. You fight it back. At that moment, your palmtop pings; a message. 

Your heart starts thumping because you really, really hope it's Dave. It's not Dave.

\- -twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling gardenGnostic [GG]\- -

TA: gg.  
GG: sollux!!  
GG: are you okay????  
GG: im so glad to talk to you  
TA: 2hut up for a 2econd.  
GG: uh  
TA: better.  
GG: im sorry about everything that happened  
TA: 2top.   
TA: ii'm over iit. we don't have tiime two whine about our feeliing2.   
TA: 2he'2 dead.  
GG: i really dont think we should just brush this under the rug :\  
TA: let'2 ju2t focu2 on the chiip.  
GG: . . . sure  
TA: ii've done 2ome re2earch.   
TA: apparently thii2 chiip ii2 compatiible wiith almo2t any of the empre22'2 creatiion2.  
TA: we're talkiing 2huttle2, weapon2, maiinframe2, power board2, everythiing.   
GG: yeah, i knew that much   
GG: its implanting the chip into our plans thats tricky  
TA: ii have a few iidea2.  
TA: maiinly, the capiital.   
GG: the capital city???  
GG: thats pretty risky!!  
TA: you have two be prepared two take rii2k2 iif you want two change anythiing.  
GG: . . . okay  
GG: what do you have in mind?  
TA: lowblood rebel2 blew up a few block2 of the capiital recently.  
TA: thiing2 are chaotiic down there. we're goiing two make iit a liittle more chaotiic.  
TA: the whole ciity i2 powered by a central maiinframe.   
TA: that chiip could get you iin and 2hut iit all down.   
GG: you want me to power down the capital city   
TA: obviiou2ly.   
TA: iif you want two make that chiip worth the trouble, you'll do what ii 2ay.   
GG: okay   
GG: im in!  
TA: good.   
TA: ii'm 2endiing you your exact coordiinate2 and the be2t route two the capiital.   
TA: ii'll be watchiing along the way iif you need any more help.  
GG: wow  
GG: sollux, i really cant thank you enough  
TA: don't thank me.  
TA: thii2 need2 two be done. 2omeone ha2 two do iit.  
TA: that 2omeone ii2 you.  
GG: okay sollux   
GG: i wont let you down!! or anyone else!  
TA: don't do iit for me. do iit for aa.

\- -twinArmageddons [TA] ceased trolling gardenGnostic [GG]\- -

You switch off the palmtop, slightly stunned. You'd half expected never to speak to Sollux again, let alone get help from him. It's almost as if your tech guru is back to normal, which scares you more than never seeing him again would. You know he and Aradia had red feelings that never really came to light; that he's gotten over it so quickly can't possibly be right.

You don't have time to dwell on it. He's tough; he'll make it okay, and you ought to do the same.

Bec follows closely as you crawl out from your hiding spot, open the map Sollux sent, and start off in the right direction. This won't be the most comfortable journey. You've got miles of forest to hike through before you even hit the smaller cities that form a cushion around the Capital. When you get there, you'll have to be incredibly careful and hope that you're not discovered, which is much, much easier said than done.

You're reminded, vaguely, of the long, tedious boat ride from your island to the mainland. 

You're used to it by now.

~ATH

Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA.

This isn't nearly as fun as you thought. 

No glory. The Condescension didn't have words of praise when YOU brought that redblooded piece of shit back, no one bows as you pass, and your own ancestor is ignoring you now that you've boarded the flagship and he's got bigger fish to fry. You can't even toy with the prisoner; he's locked up, out of reach. You're going crazy. 

Before you slide into the recuperacoon every day you make a point of trashing the respiteblock you've been granted, peeling the wallpaper till your nails are bleeding and clubbing the expensive decorations into pieces. And every night when you wake up, everything is put back into place by the flagship's crew, the furniture replaced and the block spotless. Every. Night.

It's driving you up the walls. 

Everything's so _perfect_ here, nothing's funny, and you take every chance you can get to fuck things up, tripping maids as they pass so their clean lines spill on the floor and making a mess in the imperial dining room. The other guests look at you like a heathen. Good. You always throw a few fistfuls of food on your way out. 

You just need _someone_ to tell you to stop being a shithead and _no one_ is stepping up. 

You never see the GHB. He's always busy with Redglare, or the Condesce, or the mutant. Never you. He sleeps a few blocks away and yet you still only catch glimpses of him. He's the only troll on this ship you can even halfway talk to, and he's shoving you aside like a corpse. You need to get out of this routine of monotony before you do something _really_ crazy. 

After a few nights on the ship, you start hanging around the shitblood's cell. The door's always locked tight. You're not deterred. You lean on the wall and stare at the slab of metal blocking you from what, in your mind, is the reason your life is so fucked up right now: Karkat Vantas. 

For the last few weeks, your hatred for him has been growing, steady, morphing from distant memories of your moirallegiance to nothing but pure rage. You can't fathom how you were ever in diamonds with that shitstain, but it doesn't matter. You can still make things right for yourself.

He never did anything for you. Piece of fucking garbage. He was a shit morail when you had him, and now that it's over, he's an even sorrier excuse. Every time you think of him your vision goes red around the edges. You don't really know why, and you hella don't care. Fuck the big execution they're planning for him. He doesn't deserve the spectacle. 

You can kill him just fine all by yourself. 

You have your clubs in your hands before you know it, taking one step and then another and then another until you're right in front of the cell, until your breath fogs against the cool steel. It's not locked from the outside; all you have to do is turn the massive, almost comical knob on its axle and the door swings forward easy as sopor pie. 

The mutant is sitting against the far wall, knees drawn up to his chest, more pathetic than a grub in the caverns. You smile, mad wicked bro. Your face paint is just the right amount of smeared; he pales, almost goes white. 

"What---what do you want?" he barks, but the attempt at bravado is fucking hilarious, so you laugh. Loud. It bounces off the cell's walls as the door shuts behind you. 

"Pretty fucking bland in here, right?" You gesture to the walls. "I wanna fucking DECORATE. Paint this shit with your candy red SWILL." 

His pupils visibly dilate. 

"Nothing to say? YOU'RE USUALLY SO CHATTY." 

Half a step forward; he shrinks. 

"You can't kill me," he says, desperate. "They have an execution planned already." 

"FUCK THE PLANS! You're going to have your execution, alright, and I'm the motherfucking executioner." You swing the clubs. "So what? Aren't you going to pap me or something? Try that moirail BULLSHIT that never worked in the first place?" 

"What the---" His face twists with confusion. "Oh, fucking hell. Are you talking about when we were pale?" 

"Glad you caught up, shitblood," you growl. Another step. "Not that we were really pale in the first place. YOU COULDN'T SHOOSH A FUCKER IF YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT."

"Don't blame the moirail, blame the moirallegiance," Karkat wheezes, an angry glint in his eye. "We didn't fit." 

You lash out with one arm, denting one wall of the cell with a vicious strike of your club. "DON'T GIVE ME THAT SHIT. You didn't help me---even when I---" 

Something's tugging at your think pan, some deep-down thought that feels like it wasn't really forgotten, but buried---like someone threw the rug over you. Someone who has the power to do something like that. Someone with chucklevoodoo. Someone like the Grand Highblood.

But that's stupid. He wouldn't do that to you, mess with your head like that; he showed you the way, raised you from your life of impurity and bathed you in the values of the church, and you thank the Messiahs for that everyday. You're a true highblood now. You gave up any love for the lower castes a long time ago, of your own volition . . . right? 

Doubt hurts. You hate doubt. It crawls in like a goddamn parasite and feasts on clean thoughts, makes 'em dirty. The GHB wouldn't do something like that. He wouldn't change your thoughts up in your brain . . . he guided you to the true path, but he wouldn't force you . . . would he? 

A scream comes from deep, deep inside of you, and you swing at the only thing you can; the only target; Karbro. 

(Karbro? No, dumbass, Karkat Vantas. Mutant shitblood.)

But your club never gets there; a big, familiar hand shoots out from behind you and wraps around the end of it, stops it in its murderous tracks. 

The other hand follows. It covers most of your face, and before you know it you're being flung across the room, slam hard into the wall and slide all icky-slow down. The GHB is breathing hard; Karkat looks terrified. 

"You MOTHERFUCKING SHITSTICK. What the FUCK do you think this is? A motherfucking GAME? YOU GO NEAR THIS FUCKTARD AGAIN AND I'LL REND YOUR BONES FROM THAT SACK OF SKIN YOU CALL A BODY." 

And he kicks you, for good measure. 

But it's a good thing. 

Any doubt you had before is eradicated now that he's here; Karkat Vantas is just a shitstain mutant who could never have meant something to you.

~ATH

Your name is NEPETA LEIJON.

"Please," the officer half-screams, half-gurgles. Blood pools in her mouth, waterfalls bright blue down her chin. "Please, I don't---"

You jerk your arm back; your stolen blade, which had been resting comfortably in her gut, unsheathes from the carnage and glistens in the moonlight. You show her the blade, and her face goes chalky. 

"I've seen people live through injuries like this," you tell her, bringing your face closer. "You can survive, if you're fast. Tell me what I want to know and you could live."

"I don't have the clearance--- _ARGH_!"

You ram the hunting knife into her forearm; blood fountains from around the tip. "I don't care if you 'have the clearance' or not. I want to know everything, now." 

"Please---"

_"Now."_

Her lips tremble, eyes searching for an ounce of mercy in your face, but you have none to give. Any resolve she has left dissolves when you give the blade a sharp twist, destroying any function in her wrist. The words spill out, slick as her wounds.

"We have new orders," she sobs, eyes closing. "Lowblood civilians are no longer neutral. Came from the Condesce herself--- _all_ lowbloods must die, civilian or soldier. Even you."

You don't allow the gravity of her words to affect your expression. Ripping the knife free, you stand. "Anything else?" 

"The Empress is planning something big, but I swear I don't know what," she insists, choking back tears. "Command wouldn't tell."

"That'll be all." 

"Wait!" She jerks, like she's trying to sit up, but gives up almost immediately. "Please . . . I don't want to die!" 

The forest is dead silent. 

You should leave her. That's what any bad ass mercenary would do, anyway. Leave her to die as you walk away dramatically. You even turn over one shoulder and start off in the opposite direction, but something stops you; your own compassion, you suppose, or maybe something less primal. You don't know. 

Slowly, laboriously, you pivot and stalk back to the fallen officer. She cringes in fear, one hand pressed to the gushing wound in her abdomen. You're not going to nurse her back to health or wrap her injury. But you _do_ lean down, rip the radio off of her belt, and hold it close to her mouth. 

"Save yourself," you tell her. You thumb the button on the side, and the feed crackles. 

She looks at you incredulously, then begins to speak, quietly but with increasing vigor. "Officer down, at . . . 22 degrees north . . . 195 degrees west. Critical injuries. Immediate assistance requested." 

You drop the radio next to her ear. "Don't thank me." 

You leave. 

The rest of the officer's platoons lays in pieces throughout the area---your stealthy handy work---so you meet no resistance as you walk. Perhaps killing them all was a bit excessive, but it seemed appropriate and was the safest way to get to their commander. And you had to admit you had a little fun. None of them realized what was happening until it was too late. 

This whole assassin thing is treating you well. 

It feels very, very strange for you to be so free; you're used to being part of an army, which you suppose in vague terms you still are---you still kill highbloods the way the lowblood soldiers do. But you have no commander to answer to, no place on a hierarchy; it is just the huntress and her hunt. And you like it. 

The prison feels like sweeps ago, though it's only been a few nights now. These are the first highbloods you've come across, and you have to admit it's pretty exciting. The itch to kill is still buzzing around your person, but you have bigger problems. The officer's words come back to the forefront of your mind. 

_. . . all lowbloods must die, civilian or soldier._

_Came from the Condesce herself._

That's alarming, to say the least. 

You've been warming up to the unburdened lifestyle of these past few nights, but you can't just sit on this information. You're almost certain no other lowblood---even the higher ups---have heard this, and it needs to get out. The hard part is _finding_ the other lowbloods---they're better at hiding than the highbloods are, better at blending into the scenery, better at being invisible. 

You repeat the coordinates the officer had said to yourself. This area is vaguely familiar to you---the surroundings envelop you, and something about the coordinates tugs at your think pan. 22, 195.

It's when you stumble upon a cave that you realize: you've stumbled upon home.

Your hive is different, of course, vines snaking all over its rocky exterior, and it shows that it's been empty for the last two sweeps. Your blood pusher throbs, and you find yourself stalking toward the darkened entrance of the cave, homesickness overtaking you. 

It smells musky inside. Your belongings lie where you left them, intermixed with bloodstains here and there---Pounce's kills. Squeak beast skeletons are scattered here and there but, hey, a kitty's got to eat. 

You pocket your old palmtop, covered in a layer of dust but still incredibly useful, and cast a look around in search of Pounce de Leon.

"Pounce?" you call, wondering where your lusus is and why he hasn't already greeted you. "Pounce!"

You find him, dead, throat torn out by some predator greater than he, and you are reminded that only the strongest will survive. You begin your search for lowblood allies with vigor.

~ATH

Your name is EQUIUS ZAHHAK.

The flagship, truly, is where you're meant to be. 

For once in your life, you actually feel as if the rights befitting of someone of your noble cast are being tended to; every night, you wake up in a luxuriously sized recuperacoon, bathe in warm water, dress yourself in fine, militaristic clothing; you watch servants wait on you hand and foot and dine with other nobles on the finest meals known to your kind. 

The life of a soldier is grand, yes, and you live to serve the Empress; but being served is just a bit sweeter.

At first meal, you're seated at the diningblock's impossibly long table, enjoying an aged wine and the talk of other highbloods scattered around you. 

A seadweller bristles a few seats away, reading something on a palmtop. "It's absolute madness on Alternia, madness."

"How's that, Yaxley?"

"Haven't you heard? The Capital City was targeted by a band of terrorists!" 

Several people gasp; you cock an ear. The seadweller goes on: "The rebels bombed a passing parade of soldiers. At least a hundred good trolls in uniform dead, not even including the civilians who are buried under the mess---to think, so much royal blood wasted."

"A pity." 

"Truly deplorable." 

The others in attendance murmur their agreement that this is indeed a tragic, tragic occurrence, that those responsible should be burned alive, highbloods are superior, lowbloods are inferior, on, and on . . . you nod your head, drink it in, feel truly connected to these individuals. 

(Aradia Megido's face swims into your mind whenever lowbloods are mentioned, but you're doing a fine job of blocking it out.)

A hand comes down on your shoulder. 

"Mr. Zahhak, a word?" 

A decorated officer stands behind your chair, face grave, but the look inspires a swell of purpose rather than fear. You jump up and bow your head slightly, then follow the officer into the hallway. 

"It's been a pleasure having you aboard, Mr. Zahhak," the officer praises, walking briskly. "Always refreshing to see young highbloods so well behaved and appreciative. However."

He turns heel and stares down his crooked nose at you. "There's been a severe security break on board."

"Security break, sir?"

"A lowblood infiltrator was taken in for questioning and escaped through a dross coffer chute," he explains, shaking his head slightly. "The suspect has insight that we need regarding a stolen item."

You pause, contemplate. "What was stolen?"

"Not important to the mission. All you need to know is that our lead got away, and it's your job to find her."

He begins walking again, leading you into an officeblock. He skirts around a wide mahogany desk and shuffles the manila folders stacked neatly on its surface before selecting one and holding it out to you. You take it and flip through it, shoulders back, back straight, trying to look as competent as possible. 

But as soon as you begin to read, your shoulders drape and your back loses its posture. 

A photograph of Aradia Megido is clipped to the inside of the folder; the first document gives her physical description, possible location, allies . . . you barely understand what you're reading. The words blur on the page. Slowly, you shut the folder and tuck it inside your jacket, keeping your hand in the safety of the fabric for a moment so that the officer wouldn't notice your fingers shaking. 

"That's everything you need to know." The officer pours himself a drink and sits down, rubbing his neck tiredly. "Take that down to the hangar, it's all the clearance you'll need to get a shuttle. Now move."

You're rooted to the spot for a minute, but it passes. You bow your head again and leave the officeblock.

In the safety of the empty hallway, you allow your hands to shake and your breathing to speed up, because no one is here to see you do it. By the time you've reached the hangar, you're under strict control; but inside you're still a maelstrom of panic, and a sheen of sweat is collecting on your back. You shift uncomfortably as an attendant guides you to an open shuttle. 

The cabin is mercifully dark. You lean forward in your seat and rest your elbows on your knees, winding your hands together and knocking your forehead against them every so often. This is merely fate telling you that you've been a terrible troll. You've done something wrong; this is your punishment. Aradia Megido is your punishment. 

You lean back and polish one of your arrows, the archeradicator in you rearing its head. But the young troll in you reels. It remembers Aradia's maroon blood spreading across the jungle's snowy floor, the way she crumpled, dead, and it anticipates having to do it all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays boys and girls and others


	24. "This is a War Universe. War all the Time. That is its Nature. There may be Other Universes based on all sorts of Other Principles, but Ours seems to be based on War and Games." - Troll William Burroughs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somewhat short chapter to kick off the new year holla

Your name is TAVROS NITRAM.

The rebels can tell that you're no soldier right off the bat, so they put you on cooking duty.

You end up leaning over a fire pit every night before daybreak, transforming the creatures that the soldiers bring back to you into edible meals, and you have to admit you're enjoying yourself. Maybe you're just glad you're not Darkleer's slave anymore. And maybe, it's the atmosphere, this overwhelming sense of community among these trolls. Maybe you're just dumb.

In any case, you feel like you're making a positive impact on the war in your own way and as if you really belong, which you haven't felt in a long, long time. 

The first few nights, you travel with the rebels through the wilderness, staying in their makeshift tents and choking down sopor tablets to sleep somewhat easily through the day. Nothing of interest happens―the soldiers are nursing their wounds, overcoming their loss at the amphitheater, recuperating. You like it. You can almost forget that you're in the middle of a band of public enemies and that highbloods want to rip you to pieces.

Everything is fine―until the Summoner comes back.

He's been gone for a few days, without explanation, which is apparently normal; no one bats an eye, and a high-ranking cavalreaper temporarily assumes his place as leader. None of the others seemed concerned for their missing commander, so after a while, you stop worrying, too. He's a tough guy. He can handle himself. 

It's when he returns that your calm, peaceful community is thrown into chaos. He appears out of the woods as quietly as he left, but not alone―he carries someone in his muscular arms, an unconscious someone, and as soon as he's spotted, everyone is in motion―medislayers rush to take the injured troll from him and the more trusted fighters vie for his attention, asking where he's been. The rest of the trolls have nothing to do with it, but they feel the energy in the air, and they feed on it. 

You're knelt at your fire pit when the Summoner returns, and as the platoon begins buzzing around, you give up on starting a fire and sit back on your metal haunches, watching. You have the feeling no one's going to be eating tonight. 

After he entertains his officers, the Summoner sits heavily on a tree stump, and the rebels gather around and sit before him like grubs before the Mother Grub. You waver on the fringe of the group, not sure if you even want to hear the horror story the Summoner is sure to tell. When he opens his mouth to speak, you turn on your metal heel and leave the circle. 

You walk the camp for a time, but nothing calls your attention; everyone is with the Summoner, and even though he's your hero and all, you're terrified of what he has to say―terrified of his tales of bravery, because they never fail to remind you of how pitifully not brave you are.

You end up in front of the medislayers' makeshift tent. 

There are no voices from within, just the slow flicker of a flame, so you duck inside. A troll lies on a cloth mat in the center of the tent. Bandages are wrapped around his head and a pair of broken sunglasses rest next to his pillow. He looks broken. You can't stay for another minute, and so you leave the tent.

Any sense of belonging you thought you had is disappearing rapidly.

~ATH

Your name is TEREZI PYROPE.

Slowly but surely, you recover. The medislayers here are the best of the best―they pump you full of borrowed teal blood and the gaping wound in your chest becomes a scar, as is the way of the body. The rest of you catches up. Not long after your injury, you're sitting up in your cot; after that, you're taking measured steps around the infirmary; then you're taking walks around the ship. 

But your mind isn't on your miraculous recuperation, not really. It's on Karkat Vantas. He's here, somewhere.

You admit it―when you stroll around the ship, you look for him. Not actively. You don't press your ear to windows and doors or eavesdrop or interrogate. You just keep your senses peeled for him―for that candy red scent or that abrasive voice. You refuse to do anything more (or anything less).

Part of you doesn't want to see him. Your infatuation with him should have ended in the desert, when you _should_ have killed him; but it persists. You don't know what you'll do if you do find him. It's not like you can say anything to him besides "Sorry you're about to be executed," because that's his sad reality: imminent death. And there's nothing you can do to change it. 

(Despite yourself, you remember freeing Aradia and saving her life―another questionable choice of yours―and wonder if you should do the same for Karkat. But that's absurd. Karkat is under much stricter surveillance; he's a prize of the Empire, after all. Little oinkbeast for the slaughter.)

A few nights after smelling him in the infirmary, you come across his cell. 

The metal door is imposing―it smells near impenetrable―and there are two guards posted on either side of it. Which is strange. Last you heard, he didn't have any guards―the sheer strength of his cell was more than enough to keep a weak mutant back. So what changed? You somehow doubt Karkat did anything to instigate the added security. 

Nonetheless, you've become determined to speak to him, so you pass by frequently, hoping that in one instance the guards will be gone; and sure enough, that moment comes. 

You can barely believe your nose―the door is unguarded and beckoning you. You take a cautious sniff. Certainly there are cameras here, pointed directly at the prisoner's only escape route; but the excitement overtakes you and you spin the door's handle, letting yourself in. 

Before anything, you notice how he cringes. You're hurt―is he that disgusted by you? But he relaxes just as quickly, unfolding from his defensive position and standing up, using the wall behind him for support. His eyes smell wary. 

"What are you doing here?" he spits, but there's a tremor of fear on his voice. Something definitely happened here. 

"Is it so wrong of me to want to visit Mr. Candy?" You try for your usual playful, superior attitude, but it doesn't work, not exactly, and you just sound mean. 

He makes a muffled noise. "Yeah, well, the last time I got a visit from one of you fuckers I almost got clubbed to death. Thank Gamzee for my aversion to _visitors_."

Of course. Makara would be the reason he's acting like a kicked bark beast. A flash of anger boils in your food sac, but you stifle it. Later. "I'm not here to kill you." 

"Wish you would," he mutters. 

You teeter on the threshold of the cell, then take a step forward. "I don't know why I came. I just wanted to see you."

"Well, you're seeing me. How's the view? Sorry if you weren't looking for this particular brand of shitty mutant." 

"Don't―" But you have nothing to say. Don't call yourself a mutant, when you are one? Don't act as if the Empire hates you, even though it really does? Don't act like you're imprisoned and waiting to die?

You have to help him. 

"I'm going to get you out of here," you say, determined. "You're not going to die at the hands of these trolls. I'm―"

Someone grabs you by the back of your shirt, tugs you into the hallway, and slams the cell door, all in one swift motion. 

You whip your cane out and jab at the body you're smelling, but the troll is expecting it and bats the cane away as easily as they would swat a fly. Unarmed, you get a good whiff―and all the fight goes out of you. It's Redglare. Redglare, your hero, who just heard you declare treason. 

"This way," is all she says, and then she's tugging you along.

She pulls you into an empty block, locks the door, and half-shoves half-leads you into a chair. She sits across a table from you―this must be some kind of conferenceblock. 

"I can explain―" you begin, terrified, but she cuts you off.

"You don't understand the gravity of your words," she says, her voice horrifyingly serious. "Thank the constellations that I happened by your cell before someone else did―any other troll on this ship would have had you hanged for allying yourself with a mutant convict." 

"I didn't mean to . . . " But you did mean it, every word of it. Things that made sense yesterday---the law, the Empire, your own loyalties---are gibberish today. 

"I don't care whether you meant it or not." Her thin features are all hard angles. "Tell me why you said it." 

So you tell her, from the beginning, how you and Karkat were dumb Internet friends pre-war and how everything changed when the castes were divided―how he joined the lowblood army and you joined Redglare's platoon, and how you clashed with him in that fateful desert battle; you even admit to the kiss, and your failure to kill him as your highblood duty demanded.

"You can kill me now," you conclude. "I'm a traitor to the Empire." 

You wait for the killing strike―it's only fair―but she speaks instead.

"You have confused feelings for the mutant," she says, slowly, as if she's working it all out out loud. "Confused, deadly feelings. I need you to understand something, girl. You cannot have red feelings for him. There is no quadrant in your future with him in it. He's slated for termination this coming perigree―you need to detach yourself now, before it's too late." 

You hear her, and understand her, but it doesn't help. 

"Okay." You curl your hands into fists where they rest in your lap. "Are you going to turn me in now?"

She's quiet. "If every troll was culled for a sin of their youth . . . then there would be no more trolls. Remember what I told you. I won't be here to protect you forever."

She stands and leaves the block, but before she crosses the threshold, she turns and tosses your cane back to you. It skitters across the table and rolls to a stop directly in front of you.

~ATH

Your name is ROSE LALONDE.

The ride back to the main base is painfully embarrassing. 

After being driven to a transport lot, you're handcuffed and placed in the back of an armored shuttle. Your face flushes the moment the handcuffs click closed. Oh, how far you have fallen―from decorated, successful lieutenant to bounty of the Empire. You try not to dwell on it as the shuttle makes its way to the Capital City. 

The Capital―strange. You'd been half-expecting a ride up to the flagship, for an audience with the Condescension herself, but you overhear your escort speaking to the shuttle's pilot―apparently General Dualscar is in the Capital City to sort out some mess (you hear rebels and explosions, but it's all a bit fuzzy) and you're on your way to be evaluated and sentenced by him. 

You attempt to enjoy the ride, reclining as well as you can, but with your arms locked behind your back you have to sit rigidly so as not to upset your healing hand. You think that death, at least, won't have such discomforts; not existing at all had to be better than the pains you've experienced in your handful of sweeps. 

Despite yourself, you keep thinking of Kanaya, and how she's faring in the refugee town; logic reminds you that she'll be absolutely fine. She's an official ally of highbloods and therefore under the protection of the soldiers stationed there, but you can't help but imagine her being tormented for having traveled with a traitor such as yourself. Similar thoughts pester you all the way to the Capital. 

The shuttle touches down in front of the main base―an impressive structure, massive, surrounded by barbed walls twenty meters high and patrolled at all hours by the best military trolls Alternia has to offer. You've been to the base several times in the past, but those instances have always been in order to receive instructions or evaluations―not to be culled. 

Your escort hustles you out of the shuttle's cabin and walks you up the drive, stopping before the colossal steel gates of the base. An intercom voice asks for name, blood, reason of business; the troll recites it all, provides the blood sample through a tiny square in the gate, and is eventually waved through. He wraps a hand around your upper arm as you enter the base, as if he expects you to run off and cause havoc. 

The yard around the building, all concrete, is crowded with military personnel, on and off duty; at the sight of you, they stop in their tracks and glare. You're the traitor here, the coward who ran from the Empire's gaze; they can't wait to see your destruction. Typical highbloods. 

Your escort ushers you straight to the base's front doors. A score of armed, uniformed trolls bristle as you approach the entrance to the building, but don't attempt to stop you. Lovely.

Soldiers of all ranks stop and stare as you enter the lobby of the building, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to keep your chin up and appear indifferent to your situation. Culling? You do this all the time. No big deal. Everyone can carry on as normal. 

The escort knows where he's going; he pushes you into an elevator and punches the top floor's button. The doors glide shut and the lift lurches into motion. He stands in stony silence; you do the same. No point in making useless conversation―neither of you care for it, anyway.

A secretary is seated directly in front of the elevator's doors when they open. Your escort approaches the secretary with you in tow, announces your presence, and is waved ahead―to where the Orphaner is waiting in his private officeblock.

At the block's door, the escort finally leaves you, giving you a final shove inside before turning on his heel and booking it back to the lift. Goodbye to you too, you think as the Orphaner's doors slide shut. You revolve in place and walk down a short, dark hallway that lets out into the block, a hexagonal room, dimly lit and blandly furnished. 

The Orphaner sits behind an impressive desk, his boots resting on its surface, crossed casually. He looks up at your approach. In the low light, his scars look uglier than ever. 

"Have a seat." 

You do as your told, dropping into the single chair before his desk. The fear is finally catching up to you.

He slides into an upright position, letting his feet fall, and becomes a thousand times more menacing. "You really had us going, Lieutenant. You were pronounced dead―well, missing in action. But what's the difference?"

You have no words.

"Such a shame," he sighs, scrolling through a document on the palmtop next to him. "Your combat record is impressive, especially considering you use those god awful needles to fight." 

"What is my punishment, _sir_?" You put a little venom on the end of that sentence, because if you're going to die, you're going to do it with dignity. 

"I was just getting to that," he says, serene, unruffled. He steeples his fingers and sets his strong chin on top of them. "I'd considered an old personal favorite―leave you out in the sun and let you burn to a crisp, maybe? But that seemed a little unoriginal. I like new material." 

He stands and strolls to an adjacent wall, where his rifle rests on a polished stand, pristine as ever. He picks the weapon up and caresses it the way one would caress a lover; you wonder if he's going to kill you right now. 

"Usually I reserve Arab's Crosshairs for lowbloods," he says, back still turned. "But I've always wondered how it would feel to kill another highblood with it. I've never overseen an execution―that blasted Darkleer always gets to have all the fun. It's criminal." 

Your hand pulses with pain, the pulses traveling up your arm and pounding between your ears. 

He returns with the rifle leaning against his shoulder. "I think I'll find out, then. Just how fun being the executioner is for a change." He smiles grimly. "Don't worry. You're not the only one due for an execution." 

He sends you away, and that is how you find yourself underground, in a cell beneath the base.

A guard (who treats you much more forcefully than your escort did, you might add) strong-arms you into the holding cells, a stony maze of tunnels and cells that were carved straight from the ground. The guard unlocks an empty cell and all but throws you inside, closing the wrought iron door with a deafening clang and sealing you inside.

You lie on the floor for a very long time, wondering how it's going to feel when Dualscar shoots you. 

You want to lie on the floor for a lot longer, but someone is trying to get your attention. A voice persists from the cell next to yours. 

"Lalonde. Lalonde, god damn it, wwould you fuckin' answer me?"

~ATH

Your name is SOLLUX CAPTOR.

Inevitably, your escape pod lands.

You don't really register it at first; the pod's built in hover technology slows your speed automatically as you approach the planet's surface. Impact is so smooth you don't feel it. The pod's door hisses open, and real, actual air hits you for the first time in several perigrees; but all of this is lost on you.

You can't think right now. All of you is focused on Aradia Megido's death.

This is all your fault, you realize. You're the one who volunteered Aradia for GG's fucking suicide mission in the first place. You don't know why you ever contacted her with the offer―you should have left her alone, left her to her own devices like you've been doing since the war started. 

But it felt good to have a reason to contact her, a reason unrelated to any stupid red feelings that are completely moot, now. 

You stay seated in the pod for quite a while, just staring at the feed from your monitors, absorbing the glow of events outside of yourself but failing to digest any of it. 

The sun won't stay away forever; you should move. 

It takes a sickeningly long time for you to thaw out, to collect your belongings and crawl out of the pod. You've landed exactly where you'd hoped: a secluded beach. But you didn't choose it for its solitary location―you chose it because it's incredibly close to the Capital, your next destination. 

If Jade Harley is doing anything right, that's exactly where you need to be.


	25. "War is not a Life: it is a Situation, one which may neither be Ignored nor Accepted; a Problem to be Met with Ambush and Stratagem; Enveloped or Scattered." - Troll T.S. Eliot

Your name is DAVE STRIDER.

You wake up earlier than you should, but the incessant beeping of your palmtop in your sylladex rouses you.

You feel dead. Like you're buried six feet under, or you were, and someone dug you up and left your head in the dirt, the pressure of Alternia's surface bearing down on your skull. You can't move but you can't _not_ move, because every ping of Trollian feels like a gunshot, like another strike of Gamzee's clubs. 

Fuck. So that's what happened. The clown came out of nowhere---you still remember how surprised you were, at the time, by his swiftness and strength; and before you knew it, you were down, blood gushing from your head and waterfalling over your eyes. And the pain, of course. Splitting and all-encompassing. It hasn't left. 

You groan, loud, because you're convinced that you're still lying in that clearing---you can't open your eyes wide enough to find out. But it doesn't stink of death here, and you're almost comfortable under your extreme discomfort, like you can drift into sleep again. You fight the urge.

Trollian keeps piercing your head in a million places. You open your eyes. 

The light is soft, but still bright enough to make you flinch and squeeze your eyes shut. You slide your sunglasses on, instinctual---they're resting in your hand, fingers curled around the familiar grooves and edges of your shades, so it's a thoughtless, natural movement. When you open your eyes again, you take in your surroundings---a canvas ceiling slopes overhead. 

You're in a tent. So, Karkat somehow survived the fight and dragged your unconscious ass into the tent with the Signless. Great. Spectacular. So, when you turn your head to the side, you're going to see the Signless, maybe even Karkat . . . 

You're alone. 

Something's not right here---you hear movement outside, voices, warm voices, laughter, the occasional bark of a command---definitely not Karkat and the Signless. But it doesn't sound like highbloods, either, not really. So you must be dead. 

You're not dead, according to your visitor. 

The faceless medislayer bustles into the tent and squats down beside you, his sharp yellow eyes searching your face. He speaks with a strong accent. "You ought'n't be awake, mon. Need to rest up and get your strength back. Come now, lay your head down." 

"Where am I? Who are you?" 

"You're safe now, child. You're among friends."

He doesn't leave until you drop your head to the cloth folded beneath it, and as soon as the tent flap swishes shut behind him, you're already struggling to sit up. The motion slams into you like a brick wall. You slump down, and it takes you three more tries before you can manage to sit up fully, leaning heavily on one hand. 

You glance around at the bland medical tent, uninterested, and glance down at yourself. Someone changed your clothes, swapping your old, stained, torn outfit for a pair of stock black cargo pants and a sleeveless grey shirt. Your scuffed boots---still stained purple from the fight with the clowns in the desert---sit nearby. You put them on laboriously and get to your knees, resting in a kneeling position for an embarrassingly long time before you manage to stand up fully.

So, lowbloods found you and somehow kept you alive after Makara's nasty blow. Wonderful. You let your guard down some as you half-stagger out of the tent, into the woody area the rebels have camped out in. It seems safe enough. Quiet. But it bares striking resemblances to the place where you, Karkat, and the Signless were attacked. You shake away the memories and focus on finding answers. 

You pass several rugged soldiers as you weave through the trees, following the hum of many voices to a wide, irregularly shaped clearing. Embers burn just barely in a number of fire pits. Lowbloods idle around the pits and lean against trees, some eating, some talking, some lying peacefully in the grass. At your arrival, many turn and look with interest. You shrug off their gazes and keep walking, eyes set on a lone tent that trolls buzz in and out of consistently. 

The trolls give you wary glances as you approach the tent, eventually stepping aside and allowing you entrance. Inside, you finally find a familiar face. Two familiar faces, to be exact.

"Dave?" The Summoner turns wide eyes on you. Next to him, the Ψiioniic has both arms folded, a sour look on his face. 

"Welcome back to the world of the living," the Ψiioniic adds, the scowl not leaving his face. He motions to a pair of rebels idling near the entrance of the tent. "You two. Out." 

They comply. The Ψiioniic waves his fingers, his red-and-blue psionics simultaneously zipping the tent flaps shut and pushing out a chair for you. "Have a seat." 

You robotically do so, sitting down at the rickety table the rebel leaders have spread their work across. Maps and documents plaster the tabletop under the glow of a gas lantern overhead. 

"What the hell is going on?" is all you can think to say. 

The Summoner rubs a tired hand over his face. "More than I'd care to tell you. But I suppose you have the right to know." 

"Damn straight." 

"Alright, calm down, junior," the Ψiioniic snaps, clearly at his wit's end with the state of affairs. "I'll fill you in. Highbloods found you in the middle of your little mutant vacation and decided to throw a wrench in just about every facet of our revolution at once. The Signless and Karkat Vantas are MIA and you were so close to death we almost didn't bother trying to resuscitate you." 

"Gee, thanks," you drawl.

"My pleasure," he responds. "Besides that, you should know that we had our asses handed to us at the amphitheater. Oh, and a bunch of overzealous lowbloods bombed a neighborhood in the Capital." 

"No shit?" you ask, slightly impressed. That's new.

"Yes shit. As exciting as that sounds, it didn't do much more than make the highbloods angry. I sense severe repercussions." 

The Summoner shuffles papers. "We need your help, Dave. Can you tell us anything about the last time you saw the Signless and Karkat?" 

It hurts, to throw your consciousness back to a moment of intense pain, but you do it; you remember everything, from finding the clearing to watching Karkat bandage the Signless, to the instant you realized that you were not alone; the fight; Equius Zahhak hot on Karkat's trail, and Gamzee Makara rearing up in front of you like death.

It only strikes you now that you know them---that you remember these people from grubhood, that you talked to them over Trollian, that you were almost friends, despite Makara's sopor-fueled bullshit and Zahhak's classist agenda. But that was a long time ago. Trolls change. The only thing that ever remains constant is change.

The Summoner and the Ψiioniic take in the new information quietly, but seem dissatisfied when you're finished; you don't care. You said what you had to. 

"So you don't know where they are? At all?" you ask, glancing between the two trolls' faces. 

"No," the Summoner sighs, a look of failure on his brow. "I sent a party back to search the area. There's signs of a struggle, red and navy blood, but no bodies. The trail went cold."

"Then we need to get back out there," you say, because obviously that's the only course of action at this point. "Why are you just sitting around? Let's get out of Sad Rebel City and find them already."

The Summoner silences whatever sarcastic remark the Ψiioniic is preparing and speaks. "It's not that simple, Dave. We're not far from the amphitheater and highbloods are searching for us with a vengeance. We have to keep moving away from the theater, and the place where the Signless and Karkat were lost is back the way we came. It's too dangerous." 

"Too dangerous? You're challenging a goddamn space empire with enough power to blow the planet to pieces, putting your life on the line every day, and it's too dangerous to head back and look for the actual symbol of the revolution?"

"You have to think of it as a commander," the Summoner barks, a flash of anger on his features. "We lost enough soldiers at the amphitheater. To take them back would be suicide. This is one of the biggest platoons we have under our control---if we lose these fighters, we could lose this war. Do you understand? We can't sacrifice everything for one troll. I want them back as bad as you do, Dave, but I'm not going to throw away good trolls' lives for it."

You sit quietly, put in your place. They're both silent as well. 

"Well. I see where you stand." You get up jerkily, backing to the tent flap without taking your eyes off of the Summoner's. "I'll be in the med tent if you need me." 

You've been awake for less than an hour and you're already lying through your teeth.

~ATH

Your name is KANAYA MARYAM.

You're very lonely here. 

The highbloods in control have turned the town center into a refugee camp; the once grand building has been cleared out, with makeshift recuperacoons wheeled into tight rows on its marble floors. You find one in a far corner and sit on the 'coon's lip, staring at your scorched skirt and wondering if Rose Lalonde is dead yet. 

She must be. They probably didn't even take her to the flagship---probably just drove her away from the town and shot her or something equally gruesome, something equally--- _highblood_. They're monsters. Absolute heathens. You can't imagine why you wanted to side with them, why it was ever even an issue. 

But, looking around at the safe, warm walls around you and the sopor slime bubbling next to you, you realize that you must be a creature of comfort---you chose highbloods because they can give you this, security, luxury even, and you're weak. 

You refuse the meal that's offered to the refugees---you don't want anything to do with these highbloods now---though you're forced to sink into the sopor at the end of the night and stew in how dependent you are on these tyrants. For now, at least. You just need to get out. 

The thought of leaving the umbrella of highblood care scares you, of course, because the life of a lowblood is no easy one to stomach and you'd be better off staying with the Empress and her people as long as possible. The smart troll would stay, anyway. But you never claimed to be smart.

The next evening, you peel out of the recuperacoon with the other misplaced trolls, your food sac growling violently. Turning down a second meal is more of a challenge this time. As soon as a military-esque troll takes a head count, you're left to your own devices; you use this time to brainstorm. 

Easier said than done. Even if you do manage to get out of here, the chances of Rose being long dead are extremely high. Which is silly of you to worry about---you've only just met the troll and you've gotten along fine without her for sweeps. 

You're carefully mending a patch in your skirt with a sewing kit you always have on your person when you hear two soldiers having a hushed conversation. 

"Back already? Didn't you take Lalonde all the way to HQ?" 

Your auricular sponge clots perk up immediately. 

"No, some other guy had that honor," the soldiers tells his comrade. "Would be nice, though. Cushy ride to the Capital and a little vacation." 

"How's that?" 

"Well, apparently Dualscar's over there and he's having some big execution in the middle of the city for his descendant---ain't that fucked up?---and he's throwing Lalonde in on it as a little bonus."

"I tell you, Alternia's really going to shit. You know it's bad when _highbloods_ are getting the ax in the middle of the Capital City." 

"I hear ya, man." 

You tune out of the conversation. Your usually warm blood feels like ice. 

So, she's not dead yet. But she will be, and there's absolutely nothing you can do to stop it. The helplessness is crushing. Your air sacs feel deflated. 

You start to pack up your sewing kit when a female guard approaches you. Not a regular soldier---she looks elevated. A superior. You bow immediately.

"None of that, none of that," she says, tiredly. Her workload must be heavier than ever with the influx of refugees; you don't blame her. "You seem to know your way around a sewing needle, huh?"

"Ah---yes," you reply, surprised by the turn of conversation.

"Listen, it's a shithole here," the soldier confides, glancing around at the displaced highbloods with disgust. "I can get someone with that kind of skill out of here in a heartbeat. My 'rail owns a shop out in the Capital, real classy tailor work he's doing. He's looking to hire, and since your town got burned to the ground, what's say I get you on a shuttle up there and get you a job with him? Least I can do for him." 

You really can do nothing but say yes, wholeheartedly, yes.

~ATH

Your name is VRISKA SERKET.

You feel like shit. You keep bumping into things---door frames and chairs and whatever---because you're not used to having only one eye, and you feel weak and stupid and useless (even though Mindfang still treats you like her right hand troll, but you're starting to question if you were ever really her right hand in the first place or just another pawn in her games). 

John doesn't get it, why you're even sticking around. He thinks you and he should take off and get out of her web. But you can't just _leave_ , not when you can see this glimmer of truth to what she's saying, and when that former hero worship thing you had going on for her is still pretty fresh. 

So, you're sticking around. At least for a little while. 

Mindfang isn't giving any specifics to her grand plans, and you're not really asking. You'd rather laze around the ship and catch up with John than go on another one of her life-threatening missions and risk losing the _other_ eye. So of course, it only makes sense that by that line of reasoning, Mindfang would approach you with a ridiculously dangerous idea not soon after your return. 

She calls you away from John, which means it's doubly serious---there are things that she would tell you and not him, important things. When you enter her quarters, it's dark and quiet and ominous. You're off to a great start. Bitterly, you drop into the chair in front of her desk as per usual and watch her say something quietly to that slave or---what does she call her? Servant? Whatever. They're sitting on the chaise lounge and speaking softly and occasionally Mindfang's hand strays to the jade blood's knee and it's all very strange, so you keep your eyes fixated on the desk. 

The slave leaves and the Marquise joins you, sitting grandly in her throne-like chair. The way she spoke to you when she sent John away the other night---pleading, hurt---is gone now, replaced with her usual superiority and stature. Kind of annoying, but you guess you're the same way. You're both assholes. Like ancestor like descendant. 

"Apologies," she says, completely unapologetic. "I had some instructions for my darling servant." 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." You couldn't care less about their weird vacillating quadrants. It's business time. "What's going on?" 

"Glad you're so eager to begin," she says, with a trademark smirk. She reaches into her drawer and unfolds a map, flattening it against the desktop and rotating it to face you. "I've had some time to think about our next course of action."

The map is of Alternia, you can tell just by glancing; with a whole planet to look at, it means almost nothing to you. "Do tell." 

"There's this old saying, 'all roads lead to the Capital.' Couldn't be more true." 

"The Capital as in the Capital City?" Your one eye bugs out a little. You've only ever heard of the Capital City---full of elitist highbloods, it's the grandest city on Alternia and, when you were younger, exactly where you wanted to live as an adult troll. It represented the finer things in life: power, wealth, excitement, and most of all, superiority---all highbloods. No lowbloods. 

"Precisely. Our friend the Orphaner happens to be there on royal duty, and where better to wreak havoc on the Empire and the general than such a large, busy, _wealthy_ metropolis?" She has this look in her eyes that terrifies you. 

Her sharpened fingernail traces along the map, drawing your eyes from the coast where you're currently docked and along a network of rivers. "There's a waterway that heads straight to the Capital's wharf. We'll take it, be there within two nights, and execute the next step of the plan." 

"Which is?" You're always apprehensive of her ideas. Maybe you should run while you can.

"You'll know when it happens," she says cryptically. 

"Fuck that!" you spit. "I'm not going to do whatever you say and get my ass handed to me again! You either be up front about your plans with me or I leave." 

She watches you simmer down, a pensive look on her face. "Perhaps you're right." 

And that's how you find out just how insane she really is.

~ATH

Your name is ERIDAN AMPORA.

Rose Lalonde doesn't impress you as much as she seems to impress everyone else. 

You think she's not nearly as smart as she thinks she is---just snarky, really---and that her blood is a few shades lower than yours and therefore wildly inferior. As cadets, you made it a point to best her in every assignment; if need be, you resorted to some insults you're less than proud of. In the end, it paid off: you were sent to live the high life on the flagship and she was branded as a lieutenant, forced to lead other highbloods into squalor for battle. 

Never in a million sweeps did you imagine that she would end up in the cell next to yours, locked deep in the military headquarters and even deeper in the Capital, but here you are. 

You watch from the shadows as the guards wrestle her into the neighboring cell. She hasn't changed much since you last saw her, at some frilly meeting---her bangs are a bit longer, perhaps, and her hand is bandaged and visibly wounded. There's something else, too---you think it's a lack of superiority about her, a lack of walls; she looks raw and stripped. 

You fight back old feelings of competition and try to focus, tapping in on your military background. Strategy is one of your strong suits. You can use her---for the time being, she's in this hellhole with you, and her expression screams that she wants out as bad as you. Desire is the greatest asset---nothing is so exploitable as a want or a need.

Before you speak, you let the air settle and the tension grow to a head; she didn't see you on her way in but she has to sense your presence, has to notice your ragged breathing. When the dust has collected on the stony floor of your cell, you call.

"Lalonde."

There's no answer, but you hear her shift slightly.

"Lalonde, god damn it, wwould you fuckin' answer me?"

The little verbal slip must confirm your identity to her. Her voice follows. "Ampora." 

"Obviously," you snap, scooting forward on your knees and getting close to the bars. 

"Funny seeing you here." You can hear the genuine surprise. "Aren't you the Condesce's favorite little Orphaner in training?"

"Used to be. But I made some mistakes. Clearly you did, too."

"Clearly." 

Before she can elaborate, you cut her off. "I don't give a shit about why you're here, so save it for your diary. Let's focus now on getting out of here." 

"Easier said than done," Lalonde laughs, bitterly. 

Her lack of faith is aggravating. You shake the bars slightly, lifting up on your knees. "Stop being a flighty broad for _five goddamn minutes_ and put that think pan of yours to use. Do you want to sit around and be culled or do you want to break out of here?" 

A pause. "I'm listening."

"About damn time," you mutter, sitting back on your haunches. "There has to be a way out of here, I know it." 

She sighs. "Tell me everything you know about this place. Even the smallest details."

So you do. You recount everything you can think of: the fact that down here, in the bowels of the holding cells, there are no permanent guards; they only come to check on you in the early evening and early morning respectively; you note that you're given food once a night, and that the food is pushed through a slot in the bars; and worst of all, only a select few of the guards have keys to the cells.

She mulls this information over for some time. You imagine she's surveying the dim chamber beyond the bars---nothing of interest, really. A bland space with a staircase leading up and away. 

"Well? Any bright ideas?" You grow impatient. 

"No, but a few dim ones," she answers. 

"Lovely."

You feel the nub where your horn used to be before Fef pulled it off; it's still sore to the touch, but the pain has gone down considerably. Closer to the skull, a troll's horn is harder than concrete; you're certain that Fef wouldn't have been able to rip off anymore than she had. 

"Why so quiet?" Lalonde asks. 

You scowl. "Just getting used to having half a horn."

She's curious, of course, so you recount Feferi's decision to snap your horn in two and save your lives with it. She keeps making thoughtful sounds when you finish, and it's alarming. 

"What? What are you thinking about?" you demand.

"Well, this is quite an opportunity for us." 

"How the hell do you figure?"

"Think about it. The base of your horn is probably stronger than the steel of these bars. Snap off the other one, and you've got a weapon, too." 

"Oh, _fuck_ no!" you screech. "Do you know how much it hurts to have one of your horns broken off? If anyone's getting a horn broken it's you!" 

She sighs heavily. "If you're going to be so childish about it, fine." 

There's a rattling noise as she sticks one of her horns through the bars, angling it close to your cell. You can see a good few inches of it. Hesitant, you scoot closer and ask, "Are you sure about this?" 

"Obviously. Do it before a guard comes down." 

You swallow thickly. Losing a horn is one thing; taking someone else's is another. She goads you: do it already. What kind of a highblood are you? Can't even rip a horn off? Your cool blood starts to freeze in your veins. Your hands shake. She's getting to you---she's damn good at that---and before you know it you've snaked your arm through the bars, gripped the sliver of her horn that you can see, and snapped it off like a twig. 

She screams, but muffles the sound against something---her arm, maybe---and keeps screaming, so you sit back and stare at the yellow-orange cartilage in your hand until her breathing slows down and the caverns are quiet. 

"Wasn't . . . so bad," she huffs. You almost roll your eyes.

"So? Now what?" 

"Hang onto that horn. The guards will expect that I have it, if they notice that it's broken at all. Next time a guard comes down with the keys, you strike." 

So you wait. The night passes without a visit from an important guard, and you choke down your meal with Rose Lalonde's horn wedged in your shirt, poking your ribs with every terrified breath. 

Another night passes. 

The third is when a decorated guard comes down the stairs to meet you, a wicked grin on his face. He wears medals on his chest and stars on his hat. He smells of destruction. 

He ignores you, heading straight to Lalonde's cell. He kneels to look in at her. "Lieutenant. What a surprise. I was afraid that I would never have the chance to speak to you."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

He chuckles humorlessly. "Well, perhaps you remember your expedition into the Disciple's territory---you know, the mission that you failed, and then ran from? Of course you remember. You see, both my moirail and matesprit were stationed in your platoon." 

"I'm sorry to hear it," Lalonde growls, not sorry at all.

"Likewise," the troll replies, face icy. "Bodies were never recovered, of course. Lost in those slums forever." 

You suck in a startled breath when his hand shoots out, between the bars, and gets what you assume is her throat; she makes a strangled, gasping sound, and you know that you have to take action, now, or she might be wheeled to the execution half-dead already.

You can see his big frame from here, but you don't think you could deal a killing blow at the angle, or any damage at all. So you get close to the bar, holding her razor-sharp tipped horn slightly behind your back and bark, "Hey, shithead, why don't you leave that to Dualscar?" 

He seems to have just noticed you. Raising his eyebrows, he releases her and turns to you, sidling over to your cell. "Well, if it isn't Dualscar's little traitor. Such a shame. Such noble blood, wasted. Can't wait to see it all over the chopping block. If you're interested, I'd be honored to hear your last words." 

He smiles mockingly and drops to one knee in front of you, eye to eye.

Last words? 

"I learned this from a friend," you tell him, and then you drive the horn through his eye, into his skull, pushing until you think it's popping out of the other side of his head. 

He screams incoherently, head reeling back and body slumping forward---with both of his hands clawing at his ruined eye, he does nothing to stop you when you reach out and unhook the keys that clang innocently on his belt. With the keys safely tucked into your waistband, you grab the officer by the collar and draw him in, screwing the horn around in his eye socket until he stops moaning and struggling. His think pan is probably torn to shreds by the corkscrew motion.

"Do you think---someone---heard?" Lalonde gasps, still struggling to catch her breath. 

"I don't care to find out," you reply, working your hand around until you feel a lock on the other side of the bars. You try every key in the bunch until, finally, cylinders click and your cell swings open. You open Lalonde's cell in under a second and then pat down the officer's body, pleased to find a loaded pistol. Not your first choice, but better than nothing.

"Here," you say, removing the officer's hunting knife from its holster and tossing it to Lalonde. She catches it expertly. "Think that'll be enough for you?" 

"More than enough." 

"Then let's move." You check the mag, count bullets, turn the safety off. The ammo isn't much but you're literally trapped in the military headquarters of Alternia---you think you'll be able to upgrade soon. 

At the foot of the stairs, you both stop, staring up into darkness. 

"So? Any genius plan for escaping HQ?" she inquires, weighing the blade in her hand. 

"We shoot and stab and claw our way out," is the best you can think of. 

"Idiot." She rolls her eyes at you. "We're not going to win any sort of firefight in a place like this. Our best bet is outsmarting the enemy. Laying low, not setting off alarms."

"And how do you expect to do that?" 

"Simply," she says, like you're a grub. "Haven't you ever seen the movies? We use these." 

She turns away from the staircase and kneels in front of a sealed grate, big enough for a troll to crawl through if need be. 

"Vents?" You wrinkle your nose. "That's ridiculous." 

"And it's going to save our lives." She braces herself and then kicks, hard; no go. Two more kicks and the grate collapses into the vent. 

"Ladies first," you grunt, stuffing the pistol in your waistband. 

"With pleasure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stayed home sick today and figured i ought to chug out a new chapter. update speed was pretty poor on this one but drumline is sapping my energy something fierce haha. w/e yo happy black history month
> 
> (offended white male voice) what about WHITE history month


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